The Ironborn Stark
by la vita in rosa
Summary: "I always wanted to do the right thing. Be the right kind of person. But never knew what that meant. It always seemed like there was an impossible choice I had to make." Theon's journey: from the crushed Greyjoy rebellion until The Long Night.
1. The Ironborn Prisoner

**The Ironborn Prisoner**

Theon sat on the wooden docks, perched on the chest which contained the few things he was allowed to take with him. He watched the hustle and bustle of the men readying their ships - what was left of the fleets of the great houses of the seven kingdoms, after the uprising. Calloused hands of big men pulled on ropes, unfurling sails and banners. Wine and ale, water and bread, fruit and sweetmeats were carried aboard and taken below deck. There was shouting and cursing; toing and froing; back and forth from dock to deck; servants, Lords and soldiers all preparing to board ship and make sail. No one paid much attention to one lost, lonely, little boy, sitting quite still and watching it all happen.

They were leaving Pyke today. He had never left the Islands before - had not been old enough to raid and reave with his brothers, with his fellow ironborn - taking what was theirs, paying the ironprice. Now his brothers were dead - and he was leaving, all alone, with the mainlanders. Though he was not shackled, he was still their prisoner - their hostage - and he was leaving his home to live amongst the enemies who had vanquished his father. He was to be made to pay the price for his father's defeat.

Far above his head, a gull wheeled high in the sky. It's sudden, harsh cry cut through the noise and confusion, making the little boy jump. He had lived his whole life by the sea. He had spent ten years with the gulls wheeling overhead - knew their cries like he knew his own voice, or the voice of his teasing older sister. Today they made him jump. The sudden scream was unexpected - too loud and too jarring. He felt his gut twist inside of him. Perhaps it was because he was leaving all this behind - perhaps it was because he was being stolen from his people, to live amongst strangers. Perhaps he had become a stranger to Pyke already, if the gulls could sound so discordant. The ironborn did not flinch when the gulls screeched, they did not even notice. But today Theon flinched, today he noticed.

Perhaps it was something else. Maybe it was that the shrill cry of the birds reminded him of his mother's cries. Of her screaming, in the throne room, as the mainlanders had led Theon away. '_Not my son! Not my baby! Balon, don't let them take him away, please, please. Not my son!' _But Theon had been marched away, gripped in the rough hands of Lord Eddard Stark - and none of the mainlanders had listened to his mother's desperate pleas. Theon had twisted, beneath his new Lord's grip, and looked back - one final glance - at his family in the throne room. His father was still kneeling - still chained. He had been defeated - named a traitor and forced to swear an oath of loyalty to the King. It was to stop Balon rising again that Theon had been taken: a hostage of their shame and failure. His mother had collapsed, weeping; heartbroken to be losing her final son, her baby boy - and his older sister Yara had stood by her, an arm around her - trying to comfort her. Yara had glanced up, looked across the hall and - for one fleeting moment - her and Theon's eyes had met. She had nodded at him - a stiff, brief, ironborn farewell - and then Theon had been bundled through the doors and that was the last he saw of his family.

"C'mon yer little bastard, move" a gruff voice said, from somewhere above him. His pale eyes wandered from the sights of the fleet making ready, and up to the face of the glowering soldier standing over him. The soldier was a large man, his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing hairy forearms - thicker than Theon's little chest - and gnarly hands, each as large as cartwheels. "Shift yer arse, little lordling," the man said to him. He gave Theon a shove, knocking him from the trunk, which he then picked up and carried onto the little rowing boat headed out to the ships. Theon saw him spit over the side, as he was rowed away, and mutter, "little ironborn bastard," to himself. Theon stood perfectly still - watching - not letting his face betray a tremble of any emotions he might be feeling. _I am Prince Theon Greyjoy _he thought to himself, _only living_ _son of Balon Greyjoy, who is Lord Reaper of Pyke, and I am heir to the Salt Throne._ _My family have ruled the Iron Islands for three hundred years. There's not a family in the Seven Kingdoms who can look down on us. _But these common men, these footsoldiers, these smallfolk from the mainland were looking down on him, and spitting at him, and cursing him. The last living son of a failed and beaten King, a boy of ten - alone in the world, amongst the people the ironborn had spent generations raiding and raping, now vulnerable to their anger - and their sneers. Theon made himself stand straighter, held himself a little taller - and kept his face as hard and as blank as stone. _I am Prince Theon Greyjoy_.

"Piss on it, Ned! I want you there!" Behind him, Theon heard the booming, raucous voice of King Robert Baratheon. He turned to look - keeping himself as stiff and as strong as the iron he was made of - and saw the two men who had defeated his father making their way towards the docks: King Robert, and Theon's new Lord, his gaoler, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

"I need to get home," Ned said to the King, "to Cat - to the children. Gods alone knows what has happened at Winterfell whilst we've been fighting this pissing little war, in these pissing little lands because that pissing little traitor can't be trusted."

Theon turned away from them quickly, pretending he'd not heard. But there was no escaping the thunderous voice of the King. 'You can't trust a Greyjoy! _Never _trust a Greyjoy!'

"Well that's why we've got the little lad."

"Aye - and his little head'll be on a spike in King's Landing if Balon pulls the same shit twice. Gods but we lost good men, in this one, Ned." The King spat on the dock in disgust at the waste - just because one little man had wanted more than the slice given to him by the Old Gods and the New.

"You lose good men in every war, Robert. But we are soldiers - we've been training to die since we were whelped. Die in war to keep the King's peace, that's what we were born to do."

"Shit, you say! Fight to keep the peace. I was born to swing my war hammer, and rut the women and drink until there's no more left to be drunk."

"Well, you've had your chance to swing your war hammer, now," Ned told him, "The walls of Pyke won't ever be the same again."

"Aye they won't" the King laughed, "both a castle and a whore knows when Robert Baratheon has fucked 'em - and they stay fucked. And now we've had the fight, it's time to rut and drink - at Lannisport. So come with me Ned."

"I need to get the little lad home," Lord Stark protested. Theon bit the inside of his lip - only the inside, mind, so no one else would see him react. He wasn't being taken home. Home was where he was being taken from - being stolen from - home and family and all their honour. "Winter is coming" he heard the Lord of Winterfell say. But the King only laughed - that same booming laugh from before - "you always say that - and it never comes. Gods! Or when it does, it goes away again in the end. I'm your King, Ned, and I'm not giving you a choice. You and your ragtag bunch of northern bastards are going to take your ship to Lannisport and be at my tourney."

Lord Stark opened his mouth to object, but Baratheon cut him off. "And if you're not" the King said, a broad grin plastered across his round face, "I'll name you a traitor, Like Balon Bastarding Greyjoy, and have your Robb whipped down to King's Landing as a hostage - same as Greyjoy's whelp. You want that do you, Ned? For you and Cat? For Robb - to be the hostage son of a traitor? Gods, don't be a fool!"

Ned laughed out loud. "You're a bastard, Robert!" he said.

"I might be a bastard, but I'm also the King! And Winterfell will still be there if you get back in three weeks or two. See you in Lannisport."

"Lannisport," Ned nodded. The King clapped Lord Stark on the shoulder and then turned and strode away, headed for his own ship. He hadn't spared a second glance at the little boy standing alone on the dockside, and Theon was now biting the inside of his lip so hard he could taste the iron tang of blood.

"Come on then, Lad," Theon felt a pair of hands clap gently down on his shoulders, "let's get aboard. I'll wager you're a fine sailor, being from the Iron Islands. It's in your blood. You're not afraid are you, lad?" The little boy looked up, into the stern, rugged face of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The great man looked back down at him - not unkindly. Theon shook his head, and followed Ned into the rowing boat, which took them out to where the loyalist fleet was moored, and climbed aboard the Warden of the North's own ship.

**#**

They had hauled anchor and set sail in a cacophony of noise and commotion; yells, curses, commands barking out from fore and aft - the scrape of the iron anchors on the sides of the ships as they were raised, the creaking of the timbers, the crashing of the waves and - far above them - the endless circling and screeching of the gulls. Theon stood on deck - right at the stern - and held onto the taffrail, looking back across the harbour to Pyke. To his home. Beneath his feet, the ship lurched and rolled with the waves - riding up to the crest of one, before crashing down the other side and rising up again. He stood steady - his little feet planted firmly on the floor. He was ironborn, he was born to sail. The sea was in his blood. He was not going to lose his footing, even if he could tell that - behind him - some of the mainlanders were staggering and lurching, as they went about their business, having trouble finding their sea legs. He didn't turn around to watch these men stumble about like drunken whores in a brothel, though - he kept his eyes firmly fixed landwards - gazing at the Keep of Pyke.

It had been badly damaged in the battle. He already knew that. Eddard Stark, the King and their men had lain siege to the castle. His older brother Maron had been killed when the walls had been pulled down on top of him. Theon could only assume that, at some point, his body would be pulled from the rubble and buried at sea. Though that hadn't happened whilst Theon had still been there; before the mainlanders had left, they had been too concerned with hostage taking and fealty swearing to let the defeated warriors bury their dead.

The first breach had been in the watchtower, but once the combined armies of the loyal kingdoms had got inside, the fighting had been fierce - even if the IronIslanders had been massively outnumbered. He was only young, but Theon had often heard it said that the ironborn had iron balls - that they never surrendered. As he watched the castle shrink with the distance, he promised himself that when he was grown - when he was a man, like his brothers - he would come back here and be given the chance to prove his own iron against the people who took him now: balls, belly and birth.

He had been kept out of the fighting, this time around, of course. He and Yara had been hidden away in a tower, with their mother, a nursemaid, and a warrior to protect them all. But when your home was on fire; when the walls themselves were crumbling; when men slaughtered each other in the hallways - and their hot blood spurted against the flagstones - it was impossible to be kept away from it completely. Theon had heard the battle cries, and then the strangled cries of dying men. He had smelled the smoke. And when the ironborn warriors were defeated - and the mainlanders had pulled him and the women from their tower, and led them as captives through the halls of their own home - he had seen the ruins - and the blood. When they were taken into the throneroom, to kneel before the King, he had seen his father's army defeated, the fat Baratheon King sitting on the Seastone Chair - and his own father chained and cowed, kneeling at the feet of his own throne, whilst someone else sat upon it. Even the memory of it made Theon's gut twist in anger. The Salt Throne belonged to his father, one day it would be his - now Maron was gone. Fat Robert had no right to sit there - and there was nothing that told Theon his home had been crushed, his people defeated, like the sight of his father bowing, in chains, to the man who had taken his throne from him.

But even so - it wasn't until they were out of the harbour - and sailing on the open sea, that Theon was able to look back and understand the full extent of the damage his father's castle - his castle - had sustained. Lord Stark and King Robert had been right, when they said it would never be the same again. The King had fucked Theon's home and now it would stay fucked … until Theon was a man, until he was free again - and then they could rise once more. Until then, the Iron Islands would have to remain raped, beaten and humiliated - unable to rise again and restore their honour, or else Theon would lose his head.

"Get on wi' yer, yer little traitor shit" he was cuffed around the head by a soldier, staggering past - headed for the fore of the ship. "Get out the way. Yer should be below decks where yer can't cause trouble." Theon just stared up at him - saying nothing. _I am Prince Theon Greyjoy. _Eventually, the soldier tired of the staring match and stumbled his way up the deck. "Fucking Greyjoy bastard" he spat as he walked away. Theon turned back to stare, once more, at the ruins of his home. _I am Prince Theon Greyjoy. Only living son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and King of the Iron Islands. I am heir to the Salt Throne. We keep the old way and have ruled the Iron Islands for three hundred years. There's not a family in the Seven Kingdoms can look down on us. One day I will return to my home, and my people will raid and reave and rape - and we will prove to the mainlanders that the ironborn have iron balls. One day, I will come home and take my rightful place._

He stayed at the aft of the ship, staring out towards the diminishing shoreline - staying for hours, as the daylight dwindled and the outline of his castle shrunk in the distance. He stayed there until both the light and the castle had vanished completely - and then he turned and went below deck, to spend his first night amongst strangers. His first night as a prisoner.

**#**

It took them three days hard sailing, with a fair wind behind them, to reach Lannisport - skirting the western shore of the Fair Isle and then passing the rocky outcrop of Kayce and Feastfires. They made their way into the Lannisport Harbour - and Theon watched from the deck as they scouted a berth and docked their ship. Ropes were flung out, and tied round mooring posts, holding them fast in place. The sails were lowered and the gang plank was dropped into position. And then came the great unpacking. Everything Theon had watched them bundle into the ship, three days before, back on Pyke - was now brought out again, and stored into wagons. Horses were waiting for the Lord of Winterfell and his Bannerman, and after three days on the ocean, many of them climbed thankfully into the saddle. "Can you ride, lad?" Ned asked him, he had hold of the reins of a young gelding and was stroking its nose. It whinnied softly, but stayed still. "This one seems like a good one, for you - if you're used to it."

Theon held himself tall. "I'm the prince of the Iron Islands" he said, "of course I can ride."

Ned tried to hide his smile, but Theon still saw it. "Not much open ground to ride on in Pyke" Lord Stark told him, "I'm glad you learned anyway - you'll need it, we've a long journey north after this damned tournament is over. Here, climb up, lad - lets get you settled." He bent down, intending to give Theon a boost, to help him into the saddle, but Theon didn't let him help. He put his left foot into the stirrup and then scrambled his way up, finally throwing his right leg over the other side. It was ungainly and messy, the way he had done it, but at least he had done it without requiring the help of the man who held him prisoner. Ned watched him, as he struggled to find his seat and then righted himself. Once he was in place the Lord nodded, "good lad" and went to mount his own horse.

Theon followed Lord Stark and his Bannerman - but noticed that they rode away from the wagons, taking a different road from them - as the horsemen took the road directly to the centre of Lannisport, but the caravan took the road which would skirt the city. "Where are they going?" he asked one of the men riding with him. The man had a ferocious looking wound down the side of his face, an inch to the right and he would have lost his eye. The man turned to look, "they're headed for home, little Greyjoy" he told him "it's over 500 leagues to the north, where we're going - and the road is hard. They're setting out now - we don't all have to go to this godsforsaken tournament the King is throwing, to celebrate a pissing little victory over a bunch of pissing little islanders." He glanced at Theon, as if suddenly remembering who - what - he was speaking to. He coughed. "With respect, my Lord. But there's no need for the smallfolk to crow over the defeat of your traitor father when they've homes to get back to. But we can ride quicker than the carts can travel, we'll catch up in a few days."

They rode on, heading for the lodgings which would serve them whilst they stayed for the Tourney. As they rode through the city walls, Theon looked around him - and couldn't help his mouth falling open in surprise and wonder at the things he was seeing. The city was large - far larger than anything the Iron Islands had to offer, and was bustling with more people than Theon had ever seen in his life. The buildings were grand too - made of a beautiful sandy stone. The market sold more varied fruits and wines than the little ironborn boy had ever realised existed. The stalls spread as far as he could see - and the smells of dates, and figs, and cinnamon, and spices he couldn't name, all mingled together in a perfume of intoxicating richness. The stalls were covered by awnings made of bright fabrics in vibrant colours. Everything here was bright and brash and big and _rich_. And when Theon compared it to the barren, rocky little outcrop he had called home; with it's grey skies, its stink of seaweed and fish - and its meagre little market, selling meagre little wares to poor men who led brutal lives - he felt … guilt. Three days away from the island - and he was already looking around at the rest of the world and thinking it better. Their way was the old way. They paid the ironprice. Here... here they paid the goldprice. This place wasn't better. This place was soft. These people were soft. Theon was ironborn. He lowered his head and rode on, refusing to be swayed by the opulence and excitement around him.

But - even keeping staring directly ahead - he couldn't help but notice that, whichever street they rode down, people's heads would turn. They would all stop what they were doing and watch Lord Stark and his Bannerman ride down the road. He felt their eyes lingering on him, as he travelled in the group. "What are they all staring at?" he asked the same man from before. The man turned to look at him, glancing up and down - taking all of the little boy in, before he answered. "They are looking at the nephew of the men who burned their ships and killed their loved ones" he told him. "They are looking at the son of the traitor who caused their men to have to go to war - and die."

Theon swallowed, hard, and lowered his head even further. _You are Prince Theon Greyjoy _the voice in his head said. _You are ironborn. Don't cower like a dog. Look at them. _He took a deep breath - and raised his head - and forced himself to stare right back into the accusing eyes of the people of Lannisport.

**#**

The warm midday sun beat down on the crowds sitting in the stands, watching the great tournament. Banners from all the great houses fluttered in the breeze; Lords and Ladies, in their finery, sat on their benches - whispering amongst themselves, placing wagers on the outcome. The smallfolk of Lannisport stood down near the edge of the lists and cheered on the knights- as their horses stampeded past in combat.

Even sat amongst Lord Stark's retinue - and in the midst of all this hurly burly - Theon could still feel people's eyes on him, watching him; he could hear their whispers. Theon Greyjoy - the traitors son - the prisoner in their midst. He bit the inside of his lip and tried to blot it out, to ignore it, training his eyes instead on the lists - and the knights thundering down towards each other. _I'm Theon of House Greyjoy. My way is the old way. There's not a family in the seven kingdoms can look down on … _ His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening crack, as Lord Jorah Mormont's lance struck Lord Jason Mallister square in the chest. Mallister was thrown from his horse and landed with another thunderous crash. The crowd hissed a sharp inhalation of breath as he hit the ground, and then began to cheer the winner loudly.

"Here, lad," Theon heard the gruff voice of Ned Stark say, "have you ever tried one of these?" The Warden of the North leaned forward and handed the little boy a candied pear. "Tourneys are a great excuse to indulge a sweet tooth" he said "take a bite." Theon bit into the glazed fruit, it was sweet and sticky and delicious. He took another bite, and could feel the sugar begin to coat his lips. Ned chuckled as he watched him. "You ever seen a jousting tournament before?" he asked. Theon shook his head, his mouth too full of pear for him to answer. "Aye, I guess there's not much room for tilting up on Pyke. Now you just watch this next one, Jorah Mormont of Bear Island is going up against Yohn Royce - one of the Bannerman for House Arryn. Big bastard he is. But Mormont's a tough old bird too. Should be a good match."

The little boy turned to watch, as the two knights took to the field and thundered down towards each other. The first time they met they both broke their lances, but neither of them fell from their horse. They rode on to the opposite end of the field, where they were given fresh lances and then they rode again. This time, Jorah Mormont managed to strike Royce square in the chest and Royce was knocked from his horse. Again the crowd hissed in sympathy for the blow, before cheering wildly.

Next up was a fat man, with a fleshy face and piggy little eyes. Theon, still munching his pear, turned to his new Lord. 'Who's that?' he asked - nodding at the fat man, forgetting that he had never intended to speak to his gaoler any more than was necessary.

"That's Ser Ryman Frey - from House Frey, Mormont will make mincemeat of him - fat cunt."

Theon giggled with delight at the rude word - and Ned looked a little abashed to have cursed so openly in front of the boy. They watched together as the fat Frey waddled to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Theon finished the last bite of his pear and then licked his sticky fingers, greedily. Lord Stark smiled down at him. "My lad Robb will be green with envy when he finds out you came here and saw this. He's about your age, him and his half brother Jon, they like to train at being knights in the Winterfell yard, but they've never had the chance to see something like this. You'll have to watch closely young man - so you can tell 'em all about it."

"Winterfell's a long way away," Theon said - more of a statement than a question.

"Aye - over 500 leagues to the north"

The little boy looked around at the blazing sun and the finely dressed Lords and Ladies in their silks. "So it's not like this?"

Ned looked around as well - seeing the exact same thing: the wealth, the luxury, the decadence of the southerners. "No, lad," he said, "it's not like this."

"Do you have candied pears in the North?"

Ned chuckled, "not every day, lad - you'd get as fat as Ryman Frey." Theon giggled again, and then watched with wide eyes as the two knights charged towards each other. Sure enough, Mormont unseated Frey at the first hit. The fat man flew off the back of his horse, hit the ground and rolled head over heels. The crowd cheered - though no one had won much money on that fixture, the odds on Mormont had been short.

Next up was another Frey, Ser Hosteen - uncle to Ryman, and twice as tall. But he fell to Jorah Mormont's lance, same as the rest of them. He looked to be in a seriously black temper as he stormed off the field. "Isn't Lord Jorah getting tired, now?" Theon asked, watching the Lord ready himself for the next joust. Lord Stark laughed again. 'He's a warrior, lad, prancing around the jousting field is a lot less work than war. A warrior doesn't give in. Doesn't get tired. Doesn't have the luxury to. I'd have thought the ironborn would know that."

Theon stiffened. "Of course the ironborn know that," he said. But Ned only smiled at him. "Takes years of training, lad. But one day you will know it, well enough."

"There's not going to be any more wars," Theon said. "Robert Baratheon is the King and every Lord in Westeros has bent the knee … now."

Lord Stark gave him a swift glance, raking his eyes over the little boy, noting the slight bitterness in his tone - that his own father had been subjugated and the ironborn were no longer their own people. Theon saw the look and dropped his glance, knowing he had given away more than he should. But when he spoke, Ned's voice was still even and not unkind. "Aye, we might be able to keep the King's Peace, this time. But it won't last forever. It never does. So little Lords still have to train and learn the ways of their fathers… and if their father's cannot train them, they learn the way of their new masters."

Theon's face flamed red at Ned's words, he felt the hot stain of his blushes rise on his cheeks - felt the shame of his father's defeat burn inside of him. _I am Theon of House Greyjoy. We have ruled Pyke for three hundred years. No family can look down on us. _He barely watched as Lord Whent was defeated - and shortly thereafter, Ser Lyle Crakehall. He was too busy trying to swallow down the shame that his father could not train him as a true ironborn, teach him the old ways, because he had been lost as a hostage to the mainlanders.

It was as Ser Boros Blount was getting into his saddle, that Theon became acutely aware of eyes staring at him again. He could feel them boring into the back of his neck. When he couldn't stand the shivers it was sending down his spine any longer, he turned to look. The man staring at him was old - but not elderly. He had grey hair and piercing eyes, his expression was haughty and the impression of power radiated from every line in his face. He was dressed all in black, but his cloak was pinned to him by a badge in the shape of a golden lion. He was sitting a few rows back - in the royal box.

As Theon stared back up at him, the man averted his gaze and turned instead to the King, sat beside him, and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Even without what happened next, Theon knew full well that the man was whispering about him. But there was no need to guess. Robert Baratheon listened to the whispers and then looked around, distracted. "Piss on it!" His voice boomed out, across the stands - so everyone could hear. You could always hear everything the fat King said - he had a voice like thunder. "I wanted Ned here. He had to bring the little lad. What else could he do with him? You can't take a hostage and then let it out of your sight before you've got home, again." The whole crowd around the royal box had gone silent now - and Theon could feel everyone's eyes on him. _I'm Theon Greyjoy. From Pyke. And no once can look down on …_

Next to him, Lord Stark rose to his feet and clambered across the benches, until he was in front of the royal box. Theon cut off from his mantra to watch him - keeping his eyes on Ned, so he didn't have to look back at the people staring at him. "Your Grace," he nodded to Robert, "Lord Tywin," he turned to the older man.

"Lord Stark" Tywin Lannister nodded back at him.

"I seem to have offended you, Lord Tywin" Ned said, "or perhaps it is the company I keep?"

"You had no business bringing that little Greyjoy piss stain here. His Uncles burned my fleet - I lost good men in that raid, all because that little bastard's father fancied himself a King."

"And you lost good money too, I'd wager. Tell me Lord Tywin, which is the loss that grieves you the most?"

Tywin sniffed down his nose and looked away. Lord Stark smirked. "Theon Greyjoy is my ward," he told the older man.

"He is your prisoner," Tywin corrected.

"He is in my protection, his well being is my responsibility. Where would you have me put him?"

"Well, if you are short of ideas, I can offer you the dungeons of Casterly Rock. They are some of the finest in Westeros."

"A kind offer, I am sure. But the boy bears no guilt for his father's - or his uncles' - crimes. He will grow up at Winterfell, in my care - a brother for my sons - and learn what it is to be a Lord of Westeros."

"Unless his perfidious father takes up arms again," Tywin said, his voice was dry. "Then he can find out what is to be a traitor of Westeros - as we cut his head off and put it on a pike."

Ned gave a curt nod, "we will have to hope that fear for Theon's safety will act as insurance against Balon Greyjoy getting any bright ideas," he said. "His last true heir is here on the mainland - he will not put his son in danger."

"And what about when that son is grown?" Tywin asked him. "Do you ever think you can trust a Kraken among the wolves?"

"It is my hope that in that time we will have bound the heir of the Greyjoys to us - in honour and kinship - so that when he returns to rule his own land, he can lead them to greater integration with the other kingdoms; as his wise grandfather, Quellon Greyjoy, sought to do. It could be a golden age for the Iron Islands - for Westeros, if we can all learn to live in harmony."

"Fine words, Stark, fine words" Lord Tywin sneered, "but only a fool would ever trust a Greyjoy."

"And what kind of man would hold an innocent boy responsible for the crimes of his father?" Ned asked - his voice had become a low, rumbling growl. "I take my leave of you, Lord Tywin, and ask that you no longer trouble yourself with concerns over _my_ ward." He stalked off back to the benches where his men sat - and sat down beside Theon. "Ignore him, lad," he growled, "all Lannisters are bastards. Let's hope we're about to see one get knocked on his arse."

Theon nodded - and turned back to watch the final of the tournament - Lord Jorah Mormont against Ser Jaime Lannister. _I am Theon Greyjoy_ he thought to himself _Son of Balon Greyjoy and ward of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, a brother to his sons._ _I am heir to the Salt Throne - and when I return to my lands I will lead the ironborn into a golden age of prosperity. _The thoughts pleased him ... but behind him he could still hear the whispers of the crowd, and feel the way they stared at the little ironborn captive.

**#**

The tourney was over. Lord Jorah Mormont had won - the King declaring him the winner after he had broken nine lances against Jaime Lannister - and the rumour around Lannisport had it that, the night of his victory, Lord Jorah had proposed marriage to Lynesse Hightower and been accepted. But Ned Stark did not care for rumours - and he and his men were packing up their saddlebags and preparing their horses, ready to start the long ride north to Winterfell. Theon was among them, of course - still riding the gelding he had been given at the Lannisport Harbour. They rode through the city gates and made for the northbound road. "Now we'll see how much of a horseman you really are, little lad," Ned said to him as they cantered along, "it's a month's ride to Winterfell. Gods but I wish Robert had just let us sail there, instead of taking this damned detour."

**#**

The road was long - and hard. After a few days riding, Theon was so sore that it was taking all his will not to wince, not to cry. A few days later and the inside skin of his thighs, and his arse, were raw and blistering. But he still didn't cry. Still didn't mention it. And when he dismounted at night to make camp, or in the day to take a piss, he forced himself to walk straight - to show no signs of his discomfort. He was ironborn - and he was not going to let these northern men laugh at him for being saddle sore, for not being as hard as them. He would prove he was as hard as them. Harder.

One day, the blister the size of his hand, inside his right thigh, popped - and he felt the liquid from within rush down his leg. For a moment he thought he must have pissed himself - before he realised what it was. When he peeled his breeches down, that night, he found the wound was open, raw and ragged. But he still said nothing.

The next morning, he grit his teeth as he swung up into the saddle, and held his whole body rigid to prevent himself from wincing. But as he lowered himself - and felt his raw, open skin chafe against the horse, once again - he couldn't stop himself from crying out; just a soft, ragged inhalation of pain. He immediately bit his lip and tried to pretend it hadn't happened. But Lord Stark had noticed - and he and his men were grinning. "You've been a brave lad," Ned said to him, chuckling, "I was starting to worry you'd let your wounds get infected before you said anything. A hostage is no good if he's dead of gangrene."

"I'm fine," Theon lied. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Get away with you, lad!" Ned laughed, "You've never spent so long in the saddle and you know it. Your arse is on fire." Theon felt the sudden rush of blood stain his cheeks with a hot humiliation. But Ned wasn't being cruel. "We all had our first long journey, once upon a time. We've all had blisters the size of breastplates. Jory!" he shouted for one of his men at arms, "do you have some of Maester Luwin's special ointment?"

"Aye my lord."

"Give it here then."

Jory handed a tin box over to his Lord - and Ned handed it over to Theon. He took off the lid and showed him the waxy substance inside. "Maester Luwin's speciality," he told him "seals the wound and numbs the … area. Next time you stop for a piss, lad, strip your breeches off and rub some of this on."

Theon took it from, nodding his understanding. "Thank you, my Lord." Ned only smiled, "You'll be thanking me more than that once the numbing takes effect. You'll be bouncing down the road in no time." He then turned and cantered away. "Who was down for a week?" Theon heard him ask Jory, as they headed up the road.

"I believe it was the Greatjon"

"Aye - tell him won the wager on the little lad. He'll be pleased to hear it."

**#**

The further north they travelled, the colder it became - and it was when they still had a hundred leagues left to go that they encountered their first snow. Theon shivered under the cold and pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. The Lords of the North all wore wolf furs, made specially to keep them warm from the harshness of the elements. But Theon still wore the clothes of the ironborn. His cloak was of woven cloth and had been waxed and painted with fish oil. It had been designed to keep out the winds of the Iron Islands - not the snows of the North - and it was not thick enough to keep him warm in the frozen temperatures.

When they made camp, he sat as close to the fire as he could - trying desperately to get warm again; his arms clamping his cloak tight around his little body. He could feel his ears and fingers almost burning with the cold. He had never realised that when the cold became so intense it would feel like heat - he didn't understand it. He slid his frozen feet closer to the fire, and felt his toes began to itch inside his boots as the heat from the flames restored the circulation to his extremities.

This was miserable. He stared into the crackling heart of the fire and repeated his ever changing mantra inside his head. _I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Grejoy and ward of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I am heir to the Salt Throne, the next Lord Reaver of Pyke - and I must live in the North so that I can learn the ways of the greenlanders and use their knowledge to make my ironborn warriors stronger. I will lead the Iron Islanders into a golden age of strength and prosperity. Everyone will know our name - and no one will look down on us. I am not cold. I am right where I am supposed to be. This is my destiny. I am Theon of House Greyjoy…. _

He suddenly felt something heavy be placed around his shoulders, itchy - but warm. He looked around. Jory was wrapping a fur around him. "Here you go, lad. Lord Stark's orders. He says a hostage is no good if he's dead of the cold." Theon nodded gratefully, and pulled the fur closer around him.

**#**

It was as the snows landed thick and heavy on their capes, settling on the ground in a crisp white blanket - and the sun dipped below the horizon, and frosty stars came out to sparkle in the gloaming sky - when they had been on the road for over a month, just as Lord Stark had said - that the band of men and their little hostage finally made their way to Winterfell, right in the heart of the North.

Theon stared up at the great castle - his eyes were large and his mouth hung open, as he stared up. His little chest rose and fell steadily as he kept his breaths shallow to ward against the cold, to stop it reaching his lungs - and he could see his breath in the frozen air, like he was one of the dragons of old. The castle was built from large grey stones, looking like they'd been hewn straight from the face of a cliff and then piled up in the middle of this desolate wasteland. The ramparts and towers rose high and imposing, the walls were thick and sturdy - and the gateway was narrow, and protected by an iron portcullis. Winterfell looked like it had been standing there for a thousand years - and it was so big, and so solidly built, that it looked like it would easily be standing there for a thousand years more. Long after Theon - after all of them - were dead and gone.

As he stared up at his new home - his prison - he felt the sudden crushing realisation of his own father's foolishness. He felt the air leave his body and his chest deflate, his shoulders slump. Of course his father had lost. How could he have ever hoped to win? Of course the IronIslanders had been defeated, had their rebellion crushed, his brothers killed. How could they have ever stood against a man who lived _here_?

Winterfell was far from the sea. Too far. When the ironborn came to raid and reave in the North, they would stick to the fishing villages along the Stony Shore. The deepest they would ever venture inland was up the river that let out into the Saltspear, and into Torrhen's Square. Theon wondered if he was the first ironborn to travel this far inland, this deep into the North. If he was the first ironborn to ever look upon the walls of Winterfell. He must have been - because no one would ever look at Winterfell and believe for a moment that they stood a chance against its Lord. If Balon Greyjoy had ever seen Winterfell, he might not have rebelled. Theon would not have to be here now - a prisoner. He could still be at home, with his own family, instead of being held captive by Ned. Even if Ned were kind - and so far he had been - Theon realised that he had been given to this particular Lord, and no other, because this castle would act as a prison from which there would be no escape … and no hope of rescue.

The man standing guard on the walls realised that the band of men grew near - and the cry went out amongst the inhabitants of Winterfell. Torches were lit, the gate was raised - and Ned Stark and his men galloped into the courtyard of their castle home, Theon lost amongst them.

As servants came out to meet them: grooms to take the horses, stewards to take their luggage, the little boy felt himself be lifted down from the saddle. Ned stood him down on his feet - and Theon blinked up in the torch light, looking round at the hustle and bustle. "Old Nan" The Lord cried out. An ancient old woman shuffled towards him, "yes, my Lord."

"This is Theon Greyjoy, my new ward. He will be living here with us, he will be a playmate and a brother for Robb and Jon. But he is weary from the road. Take him to the boys' chambers, get him something to eat and drink and see that he is settled to bed before he falls asleep on his feet."

"Yes my Lord," she nodded at her master and then took Theon by the shoulder, steering him towards the Great Keep. "This way, little Lordling, we'll have you in in no time." She led him through the doors and up the winding staircase. He stumbled behind her - exhaustion was crashing in on him, now he was finally out of the saddle. She eased open a door and held a wizened finger to her cracked lips. "We need to be quiet, the young master and his brother are already sleeping, we don't want to wake them." She shuffled him inside and lit one solitary candle, enough for them to see by but not enough to disturb the two slumbering boys. Although the light was dim, Theon got an impression of two boys - about his age - with identical curling, black hair and rounded faces, tangled up with their sheets. "Strip to your small clothes and into the bed with you," Old Nan told him.

With fumbling fingers, made clumsy from the cold - and a little embarrassed to be watched stripping by a complete stranger - he pulled off his ironborn woven linen clothes and then quickly buried himself beneath the furs, before the cold air could reach him. Another serving girl came in; this one was younger - though surely there could be nobody older than Old Nan - and she was carrying a tray, bearing bread, cheese and a tankard of warm milk. Theon ate ravenously and then drained his tankard, swiping away at the milk moustache that he could feel on his upper lip. Then the younger serving girl took the tray away and Old Nan blew out the candle and left; leaving Theon in darkness with his two new, sleeping brothers - to fall asleep in his first soft bed in over a month.

**#**

Theon woke as the early rays of morning sun crept through the window. The light was as cold as the air, here in the North, and he pulled the furs around him even tighter. The two other boys - the Stark boys - slept on. He lay still and watched them. His bladder was cramping with the need to piss, but he was too cold to get up and find the privvy. He wriggled deeper under the coverings, squeezing his legs together to hold the piss in.

The fingers of dawn crept further and further into the chamber - inching round the room, illuminating Theon's surroundings so he could at last get a clear look at them. He lay still and watched dust motes dance in a pale sunbeam - and wondered about Yara waking up on the IronIslands - alone in the chambers she had once shared with her baby brother. He thought about his mother, and wondered if she had stopped weeping for him yet. He thought about his father and wondered what he was doing, now his kingship had been stolen from him. Was he accepting his fate? Or was he planning to rise again, like a true ironborn? If he did - then Theon's life would be forfeit, here in this strange place - miles from the sea. The first Theon would know about it would be the arrival of a raven, telling Lord Stark to take Theon's head. His insides lurched with dread at the thought - that he would grow to a man, watching every raven, never knowing which carried his death sentence. It made it harder to control his bladder. He squirmed again - feeling the burning between his legs, as the need to piss became desperate. He was going to have to brave the cold. Brave the cold or piss the bed.

He gasped in shock, as his bare feet touched the cold, stone floors - they felt like ice beneath his toes. He stopped to wrap a fur around his shoulders, covering his smallclothes, and then stumbled off in search of the closet.

It was hard work, fumbling around to get his little prick out, whilst trying to keep the furs wrapped around his shoulders. But eventually he managed, and without letting spill any drops on his linen underthings. He sighed with relief, as he allowed his muscles to relax and felt the steady stream flow out of him. He listened to it hit against the stone shaft, falling miles downward to the foot of the Keep. Once he was done, he shook himself - sending the last few drips flying, and then fastened up his smallclothes. Then he headed back to his sleeping chamber.

When he got there, the servants had arrived. A fire had been lit in the grate and Old Nan was rousing the other boys. She glanced round at him, "there you are! I was worried you made off in the night."

"I'm still here."

"Good - there's all kinds of ghouls and goblins can take a little boy in the forest. You don't ever wander off alone, outside the castle walls."

"I won't." He was aware of the two Stark boys staring at him. Now they were awake, he could see just how alike they were - both handsome boys, with curling dark hair - though the elder had eyes that were the brightest blue Theon had ever seen, where as the younger one's eyes were a deep, warm brown. There was less than a year between them and they were practically the same size.

The older one looked Theon up and down. 'Who is that, Old Nan?' he asked. Theon answered for himself. "I am Theon Greyjoy. Last living son of Balon Greyjoy. I was the prince of the Iron Islands."

The boy continued to stare. "My father went to war with the Iron Islands," he said, "they say he crushed the Greyjoy rebellion and Balon Greyjoy now bends the knee to King Robert Baratheon."

Theon stared back at him, refusing to look away. He was older than this boy, though not by much - and wanted to make it clear to him that he was his superior by right of age, if not by rank. "My father is Lord of the Iron Islands. We have ruled Pyke for three hundred years." They continued to stare at each other. The youngest boy, the dark eyed one, looked between them - nervously. Theon kept his face still, he tried to match, perfectly, the expression on the other boy's face. Theon was the third son of Balon, the baby of the family - younger even than Yara. He had not been born to rule, even if he was now the sole surviving heir. His older brothers had beaten him. His older sister had teased him. His mother had babied and cosseted him and his father had ignored him; his least important son. But this Stark boy was the oldest of Ned's brood. He was his son and heir and would be the next Lord of Winterfell, the next Warden of the North - and the knowledge and security of his position, of his place and importance in the world, shone from his eyes; was evident in the determined setting of his jaw. Theon could never match that - but he tried, nevertheless.

"Little Greyjoy is your father's new ward," Old Nan told the boys, "he is here to be a friend to you and to train as a Lord by your side."

"Is he our prisoner?" The elder Stark boy asked. Theon flinched at his words, he couldn't help it. It was one thing to stare, stony faced, into the accusing eyes of adults - but to have a peer, a younger boy, look down on him ...

"He is at that," Old Nan said "he's with us to make sure his father doesn't rebel again. But he is also our guest, Master Robb - and the laws of hospitality still hold in the North. You remember that."

Robb nodded his head at her words, looking grave and sombre; thinking on the reminder of the customs that were important to their people - then he looked back at Theon, ready to do his duty as Lord Stark's heir. "Welcome to Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy, I hope you will be happy in our home."

**#**

After they were breakfasted and dressed, the boys were turned out into the yard - ready to take their lessons with Ser Rodrik Cassel. Theon was now dressed in some old clothes of Robb's, which Old Nan had found for him, as his ironborn clothing was not warm enough for the North. He felt strange in these new garments - new to him, at least. The men of the Iron Islands dressed differently to the men of the North, North men's tunics were longer - had skirts, which Theon could always feel flapping around his thighs awkwardly; making movement much more difficult for him than it had been in his tighter IronIslander breeches and jerkin. But he felt much warmer in the fashions of the North - and he would learn to move properly, in the tunic, in time.

Ser Rodrik was a gruff, old man - who looked the Greyjoy boy up and down, before handing him a wooden sword to practice with. "Let's see how a Kraken does so far from the sea," he said. Theon took the sword from him, unsure as to whether he liked Ser Rodrik or not - there was something in his eyes, a glint ... the little boy got the unsettling impression that the knight did not trust him, was appraising him as he would an enemy - looking for weakness, looking for treachery. But for all the way he felt the knight's eyes lingering on him - as he swung his sword - Theon could tell that the man was a good teacher. He put the boys through their paces, teaching them footwork, correcting their grip - letting them take swings at each other; praising if they made a hit, praising them if they successfully dodged a blow. It was hard, hot work and soon - despite the cold of the air - Theon was sweating beneath his Northern clothes. But he was delighted to discover that he was more than a match for Robb Stark - able to move quicker, and strike with more precision. He was better than Jon - as well - who it turned out was not a Stark but a Snow. Theon had been called 'bastard' many times since he had been taken from his home - but here was a real one, and it pleased Theon no end to discover that there was someone else in Winterfell whose position was as uncertain as his own.

There were more children at Winterfell than just the boys. There was a little girl, half their age, with flaming red hair - who carried herself like a princess, and a younger girl, again, who was just learning to toddle around. Lady Catelyn Stark was also heavy with child - and Theon understood, from the murmurings of the servants and retainers, that it was believed she was carrying another little Lord of Winterfell.

The family were close knit and loving - always teasing and laughing. They loved each other, they loved their servants - and their servants loved them. The longer he stayed at the castle, the more Theon would watch them, longingly, yearning to join in with the laughter, the joking - but he did not know how. This was not how life was on Pyke. Life was hard. Brutal. And the ironborn were hard to each other, or else they wouldn't survive the harsh conditions. His brothers had always beaten him - rough lashings that would leave him bruised and even bleeding. He was beaten at Winterfell, of course, even as Robb was - when they had done something to earn it - but even the worst beating he received: when he jumped down the stairs of the Keep and landed on Old Nan, knocking her off her feet, had been gentle - tender, even - compared to what he was used to.

Lord Stark was unfailingly kind. He was just and fair - and, when the boys fell out, he never simply sided with Robb, as his trueborn heir, but would listen to what Theon and Jon had to say, as well. Robb soon became a firm friend, delighted to find someone he could be as rough with as he liked, someone who could challenge him with the sword and the bow - make him better by making him work, someone he could get into trouble with. As for the girls - they were so young, it wasn't long before they could not remember a time when Theon hadn't been there, and they accepted his presence without question; accepted him as another older brother - even if he was a brother they loved less than the others.

But not everyone worked as hard to make Theon feel at home. Lady Catelyn was never cruel, but she certainly never loved him. He would catch her watching him, out of the corner of his eye, and noticed that she never spoke as freely, or laughed as much, when he was around. She treated Jon - the bastard boy - the same. Never cruel, but never a mother. He and Jon were always outsiders, always interlopers, in her eyes.

And as for Jon … Theon would roll his eyes just at the thought of him. The younger boy was quieter and gentler in nature than the other two. Whilst Theon and Robb would hare through the castle, upsetting things, getting into trouble, earning themselves beatings - Jon never seemed to put a foot wrong. Always seemed to know - where to draw the line, when to stop. Theon could always feel those dark eyes on him, like they were judging him - for leading Robb astray, blaming him for taking Robb away from him. But this was Jon's home, whilst Theon was a thousand miles from his. This was Jon's family, whilst Theon was a thousand miles from his. Theon needed Robb more… Besides, he and Robb were trueborn, rightful heirs - future Lords. They had more in common with each other than Robb had with his bastard brother, or Theon had with his fellow outsider.

**#**

The days at Winterfell turned into weeks. Theon settled in, began to learn the ways of the North; took his lessons with Robb, from Ser Rodrick; ate at the Stark's table; slept in the same room as his foster brothers. He was there when Lady Catelyn went into labour, one afternoon out in the yard, and heard Bran Stark's first wailing cries come pouring from the window of Lady Cat's chamber. But the longer he lived with this family, the more he missed his own. Unfortunately, he had no reason to believe that his own family were missing him.

At Robb's suggestion, he had asked Lord Stark's permission to write to his mother - to tell her he was settled and well cared for at Winterfell. He saw a shadow of reluctance on Ned's face, before permission was granted - but he was told that he must show his letter to his new Lord before he sent it - and show him any reply he got. He was still a prisoner - a hostage - he couldn't be allowed to communicate with his family, freely, in case he was plotting to betray his captors. Ned didn't say as much, of course, but Theon knew.

He sent his raven to his mother, but no reply ever came. For days and weeks he scanned the skies, hoping a message would be returned to him. But eventually he had to accept there was no letter coming. He worried that maybe his mother was sick, had taken ill in his absence - and so was unable to write. He wondered why Yara wouldn't write in her place - to let him know.

He realised just how trapped he was, here in the frozen lands of the North, how cut off from the sea - from his home. He had no idea if his family were well, if they lived. No idea what was happening on Pyke. He worried they had forgotten him - but then shook off the thought. _I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy - his last living son, and heir to the Salt Throne. I am important to my father. He has no heir but me…_ but then he remembered he had no more connection with his homeland, no knowledge of events taking place there. Lady Catelyn had just birthed another son - was it so impossible his own mother might do likewise? And then there would be another heir - another ironborn, ironraised boy for House Greyjoy. All it would take would be the birth of another trueborn son, and Theon would fade in importance, into insignificance. With a new heir, Balon could rebel again - and then this kindly family, taking care of him, would take Theon's head. But Balon would already have a son to replace him.

He continued to watch the skies, hoping for news of home - even if it didn't come to him, come from his family - just any scrap of information that would connect him with his real home. But nothing ever came.

The weeks turned to months and Theon learned, more and more, the ways of the north - began to forget the old way, had to work to keep reminding himself of what it was to be ironborn. He got used to walking in the strange skirts of Northern fashion, he got used to fighting that way. He got used to hunting in the forests around Winterfell and eating the game they killed there. He was trained in the greenlanders ways and customs, and was taken to the Godswood to learn of their Old Gods. More and more he had to repeat his mantra to himself, furiously: under his breath; inside his head; before he fell asleep at night - to remind himself who he really was, and how the ironborn were supposed to live.

But it slipped away, further and further - and the silence from his homeland was deafening. He would watch the Stark family and yearn to be one of them, to be part of what they had. To know his true place in the world, and to be right where he belonged. But when he stood on the castle walls and looked out at the miles of forest and moor, he would yearn for the sea - for the freedom of the ironborn, and chafe at the walls of his prison. He yearned for his mother. He even yearned for Yara and her teasing ways. And, most of all, he yearned for the knowledge he once took for granted, the knowledge he saw in Robb's eyes every time he looked at him: that he was the son and heir of the Lord of the Land, that his position was secure and one day he would rule his people.

The months turned to years - and Theon Greyjoy grew to be a man … but he never stopped being a prisoner.

* * *

**A/N I'm pretty new to GoT (as in ten days ago I had no interest in it and had never seen any of it) so everything I write will mostly be based on the show and not the books - because I haven't had time to read them, or even find a copy of them, yet. So that means, where there was divergence between show and book, I will stick to the show canon: so Yara not Asha, the simplified Reek story line, Sansa being the one who ends up at Winterfell in s5 - and, of course, characters will look like the actor who portrayed them, not the way they were described in the books and their ages will comply with the show more than the book. **

**Sometimes I will use book information, if there is something on the show that wasn't clear or was glossed over - and google tells me the information I need exists in ASOIAF, and sometimes I will mix the canons up in small ways (like switching between the Salt Throne and the Seastone Chair - because similes are the writer's friend) - so some chapters will read as a combination of the two, but that will be deliberate. And sometimes there will be horrible mistakes made by me - because only ten days ago I had no knowledge beyond what I picked up from 8 years of T.V trailers and the general ether - and even then I didn't care about what I knew. There's a whole world to learn about a lot of information to absorb - but I will always try and be as accurate (to the show) as possible. **

**I hope to write a chapter for each episode of the show - finishing on episode 3 of season 8 (for obvious reasons), including episodes Theon wasn't in, because he must have been doing something - and I'll have free range to make that something up. i have no idea how long this will take and have no posting schedule in mind. However, I do know that the next chapter will pick up during the events of Season 1 Episode 1 'Winter is Coming'. **

**Thanks for reading this first chapter - I know it was really long! **


	2. Winter is Coming: 1

**Winter Is Coming: 1**

It was just as the first cracks of cold light seeped into the darkness of the northern skies that Theon felt Cicely rise from his bed. She lit a candle and began to dress by the flicker of its flame. He opened one eye and peered at her, "You're going?"

She pulled her shift over her head and then began to tie on her petticoat. "I'm needed in the kitchen - I don't want anyone noticing I wasn't in my own chambers." She glanced towards the window, seeing the first hints of the dawn, "You'll need to be up soon. Ser Rodrik will have you jumping."

"Not yet. I don't jump for the old man."

She only smiled, knowingly. "Sure you don't. The little Lord of the Iron Islands does just as he pleases. It just pleases you to spend your days sharpening Robb Stark's swords for him."

"You better watch your mouth," Theon glowered at her - trying to cover the way her words had stung him. "It won't be so pretty once I've buried my fist in it." But she only laughed at him, not taking his threats seriously - not taking him seriously. By now she had put on her stays and slid her stomacher between the laces. She laced up her bodice and, as her stays tightened and the milky roundness of her breasts were plumped up into place, Theon forgot all about her mocking words. Instead, he watched as the candle threw it's rosy glow across her skin, making it seem like her bosom was flushing with heat - or desire - as it had last night, when she'd been on top of him. The memory made him stir, becoming acutely aware of the throb of morning glory between his legs - the early morning arousal mixed with a burning desire to piss.

She finished tying a neckerchief in place, providing more modesty than just the stays offered, and picked up her shawl, readying to go. "Wait!" she turned back to look at him, and he threw back the covers exposing himself to her. "You don't have to go just yet - you can't leave me like this." He glanced down - and her eyes followed his, resting between his legs. She smiled again - a prurient smile - and her cheeks dimpled. Dropping her shawl, she crossed to the bed and climbed back on, straddling the naked young man. Theon lay back his head and groaned, gripping her waist as he held her against him.

They weren't skin to skin, her petticoats were in the way - but the pressure between them still felt good - aching and teasing - as she ground against him - three swift circles of her hips. Then she leaned forward, putting both hands either side of Theon's shoulders and kissed him - a quick peck on the forehead. "You'll have to finish the rest yourself, little Lord," she told him, "I'm needed in the kitchen." And, with a laugh of delight at having led him on, she climbed back off him, picked up her shawl and headed for the door.

"Don't - wait!..."

But she didn't even look back, she opened the door and disappeared down the staircase. He stared after her in frustration, "at least shut the door!" But she was gone. He pulled the furs back across himself and then gripped himself beneath the covers, grunting until he found his release.

His one urgent need taken care of, it was now time to take care of the other. He climbed from the bed and grabbed the chamber pot from beneath it. But then his eye fell on the open door. It would be just his luck for Arya or Sansa to be up early this morning, on the stair - walk past his door to see him naked and pissing into the pot. But his need was too desperate to risk closing the door first and then relieving himself. Holding the chamber pot in one hand, and himself in the other, he crossed the room to the door - pissing as he went - and used his naked shoulder to close it. In privacy once more, he groaned with relief as he felt his bladder empty.

Once he was done, he went to the window and opened it, wide - the chill air chapped his skin, immediately - but this was only the work of a matter of seconds. He upended the contents of the chamber pot into the yard below - watching it fall to earth like a golden, yellow waterfall, and hit the ground. It was strangely satisfying to watch.

Cicely was out of the keep, by now - and crossing the yard. She looked up, as she heard the window open and the piss come pouring out. "Put it away, little Lord" she called out to him, the laughter clear in her voice, even from this distance, "the cold is making a joke of your once proud cock." Theon glanced down - and then gave her a grin and a salute. She laughed in delight and vanished into the great hall - and he shut the window and slid the pot back beneath the bed.

Then it was time to wash. He poured some water from the ewer into the bowl, which stood on the dresser beside the candle Cicely had lit. He splashed his face first, feeling the drips run down - the coldness of the water killing off the last of the heat from his thwarted tumble. Then he picked up his block of soap, made in the Winterfell scullery from tallow and ashes, and worked it up into a lather. Using a rough cloth, he scrubbed away beneath his arms; searing away the sweat - and the odour built up by the hard, rough work he did by day. Then it was time to clean between his legs - searing away the sweat and odour built up by the hard, rough work he did at night; cleaning away the stickiness that had spilled against him and stuck to his skin. Then he towelled dry and began to dress.

He pulled on his breeches and his linen undershirt, and then it was time to put on his tunic. Nine years in the North and he was used to their longer, more elaborate clothing; no longer felt the strangeness of the skirts against his thighs. He could barely remember what it was like to dress without them. But he was still ironborn. Still the last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands. Adopting the clothes of the greenlanders could never change that.

Finally, he put on his wolf's fur cape - slung it around his shoulders and fastened it in place with his gold brooch. He was very pleased with that gold brooch, he always wore it right in the centre of his chest - so everyone could see it. It was a brooch befitting the son of the Lord of the Iron Islands - befitting a man who had once been a prince, and would one day rule his people.

He had bought it from a merchant, who had been travelling through the great townships of the North; the merchant had come to Winterfell from The Dreadfort and was continuing onward to Deepwood Motte. He had lain his wares out in the courtyard of the castle, and when Theon had shown an interest in the brooch had told him how the gold had been mined from the Lannister lands and then forged in King's Landing. Roose Bolton's bastard had taken a shine to it, over at The Dreadfort, and when he hadn't the gold for it, the merchant had truly feared for his life. But, fortunately for the merchant, Roose Bolton had slapped his illegitimate son down - and the merchant had left that place, with it's flayed man banners and yapping hounds, thankful to be free of it.

As Theon had held the brooch in his hand, barely listening to the story, he watched the sunlight dance on the metal and thought to himself that it was no surprise the Bolton bastard could not have it. It was not a brooch fit for a bastard. It was a brooch fit for a Lord - a ruler. "I'll take it," he had said, without even asking the price.

Now he fixed it to his chest, holding his cape in place, as he always did. Lord Stark did not make him do without, did not make his ward dress in rags, Theon was always dressed as would befit a young man of his station and position in life … but, nevertheless, his clothes were never quite as fine as Robb's. Robb was dressed as befit Lord Stark's eldest son and heir. Theon was dressed as befit Lord Stark's ward. It pleased him to have this one, fine thing - which Robb did not have - which showed the world he was son and heir of a great family, in his own right. It pleased him to have a tangible reminder that, despite their positions in the here and now, one day he would be Robb Stark's equal - he had been born Robb Stark's equal, and that was how he would live … one day.

**#**

When he reached the great hall, he found it mostly empty. The great family of Winterfell were not yet up - and it was only their servants awake and readying the hall for their arrival; lighting the fires, sweeping the rushes, setting the dishes upon the table.

Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin were already there - eating their breakfast together. Theon went over to join them, clambering onto the bench across from them. He pulled the cold starling pie over to himself and cut a generous slice - looking up as he became aware of a kitchen wench at his side, pouring him some small beer. It was Cicely. She smiled at him, that same prurient smile from before - keeping an eye on the two older men, to make sure they didn't see. Theon grinned back at her - his own smile wolfish and predatory. As she finished pouring and walked away from him, he grabbed at her arse, giving it a squeeze. She didn't react, not wanting the old men to hear her giggle, but when Theon turned from her and looked back across the table - the ghost of his smirk still on his face - he caught Maester Luwin's look of disapproval.

The smile fell from his face and he cleared his throat. "Ser Rodrik, where are starting today?'" he asked, digging his knife into his starling pie. Ser Rodrik took out his list and unfurled it. It rolled across the table - and Theon sighed, just seeing the length of it. They were to start in the stables; overseeing the care of the horses, checking they and all their equipment were in peak condition: ready for anything. Then there would be a visit to battlements- checking there were arrows enough stored there; before dropping in on the craftsmen of the castle: the cooper, the cobbler, the fletcher - and putting orders in for what needed to be made, following on from their accounting the previous day. They would need to speak to the armourer, and check over the household guards, before going down to the village to collect the rents. Then, and only then, - if there was still daylight enough - Theon would have to get practice in with his bow. He was a skilled archer, had learned well in the years he grew to manhood, but now he was put to work, he had to find the time himself to keep his skills honed.

He finished the last forkful of his pie and drained his small beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Better get started then" he said. He smiled, as he said it, but there was a bitter, sarcastic tone to his voice.

Lady Catelyn entered the great hall, just as he and Ser Rodrik were leaving it. "Ser Rodrik" she smiled at the old knight, warmly, "I hope you are well this morning?"

"Gods be good - I'm fighting fit for another day, yet, my lady."

She smiled more warmly. "I'm glad to have caught you - there is a small matter that could do with your attention." He bowed his head, to show his willingness to do whatever she asked. A slight frown line creased between her eyebrows. "A small matter of petty theft. Some petticoats have gone missing from the laundry. Something and nothing, and it may all be an accident. But we cannot overlook theft. If you would be so kind as to get to the bottom of it, before we have to bother Ned." She glanced at her husband's ward then, "perhaps Theon could see to it, if you are too busy?"

Theon bit the inside of his lip - and then plastered what he hoped looked like a sincere smile on his face. "My pleasure, m'lady."

She nodded at him - but, unlike when she had greeted Ser Rodrik, her expression was cold - disinterested. She did not care if it was his pleasure, he would do as he was told. Theon pretended not to see - and followed the old knight out into the stables, ready for the start of their long day's work, leaving Lady Catelyn to enter the great hall - and wait for her loving family to join her there.

**#**

"Lift her leg up … aye she'll do; come on, lad, next one." They had been in the stables for hours. They had looked over the saddles, checking the leather; ensuring it wasn't too worn, that the straps held firm. Then they had looked over the reins, and checked the iron of the bits - making notes as to what needed replacing, what they would need to say to the saddler and the ironmonger when they finally got around to speaking to them that afternoon. Now they were checking the shoes on the horses, themselves. Theon had hold of one mare, had quieted her, shushed her as she shied away from him, and then - with one hand on her flank and the other on her knee joint, raised her leg so he and Ser Rodrik could see her hooves. He repeated the manoeuvre for her other three legs and - once she was given the all clear - they moved onto the next stall; the next horse.

This one had a shoe which had worn almost completely away on its front hoof. The nails were sticking through - and if the creature was ridden it would develop a limp, as it tried to compensate for its weak leg. "You'll have to take this one to the blacksmith, after, lad," Ser Rodrik said, "get him to shoe the horse at once, it's no good like this."

"Yes, Ser Rodrik," he struggled to keep the boredom out his voice. He could hear Robb out in the yard with his brothers - his real brothers. They had got out of bed at last, had their breakfast together, and were now practising their archery against the target. They were teaching young Bran to shoot, by the sound of it - there was a lot of laughter and merriment as they tried to get him to adopt the right posture, plant his feet right, take aim - and hit the bullseye. From the sound of it, it wasn't going very well - but they were having fun trying.

Theon sighed. He just hoped they weren't using up too many arrows. Checking their arrow supply was still plentiful was lower down his list of chores to complete today - and if they were running low then speaking to the fletcher and ordering more would be added to that list.

"And speak to the head stablehand," Ser Rodrik said to him, in his gruff voice, snapping the young man from his reverie. "Find out how much feed they've got left - and when they need us to order some more."

"Yes, Ser Rodrik."

"Weather's been bad, recently - they might have had trouble harvesting the grass, might be a shortfall. Better to put the order in early, give them time to get it. Can't have the horses going without hay."

"No, Ser Rodrik."

"And wipe that gloomy look off your face, boy. You know how lucky you are? To have decent work in a fine castle - a lad in your position? Lord Stark has been very good letting you play such an important role in the upkeep of his township. There's lads out there would kill for the chance to be involved in the running and administration of a place as grand as Winterfell."

_Well - if they're kind enough to kill me first - they can have it _Theon thought, but outwardly he plastered his smile to his face - and managed to speak without gritting his teeth. "You're right Ser Roderik, Lord Stark has been so very kind to me."

"And don't you forget it." They came out of the horse stall, in view of the stable door. "Now - I'm going to talk to the ironmonger about replacing those bits" Ser Rodrik told him, "you find the stablehand and speak to him, take that horse to be shoed and then go to speak to the scullery maids about those damned missing petticoats. Try to get them to agree it's all just been a big misunderstanding - I hate to see a woman get the lash. Then I'll meet you up on the battlements in an hour."

Just as Theon opened his mouth to repeat "yes, Ser Rodrik," in that same blank monotone he always used when taking an instruction, the stable door opened and Jory stepped inside - a message in his hand.

"Sorry to bother you, Ser Rodrick," the captain of the guard nodded at his uncle, before also nodding at Theon. Theon nodded back. "But we've just received a message at the gate - the guardsmen have captured a deserter from the Night's watch."

"He got all the way down here before they caught him?" Theon asked - finally something today was piquing his interest. "Did he have a horse?"

"I believe he was on foot - he was when they took him."

"Must have run hell for leather then - mind you, so would I if I was trapped in that freezing pile of shit, sworn to never get my end away, again."

Jory hid his grin from his uncle - but he certainly didn't disagree with Theon's assessment. Ser Rodrik turned the message over in his hand, as if hoping to find more information - more explanation - than what Jory had given him. But that was all there was. There was going to be no choice in this. "Thank you Captain Cassel" he said to his nephew. Jory nodded and took his leave and the old knight looked at the man who acted as his squire, "change of plan, boy, we need to speak to the master right away. But that horse needs to go to the blacksmith the minute we get back."

**#**

They found Lord Stark standing with his wife up on the walkway of the Keep, watching the boys practice their archery. Beneath his feet, Theon could hear Arya Stark's squeals, and Robb and Jon's deep laughs, as Bran chased his older sister around the yard. He caught glimpses of them all, from between the wooden planks of the catwalk. They were making merry - whilst he helped deliver a message. Though messenger was probably the least onerous thing he had on his list of tasks for the day.

"Lord Stark, My Lady," Ser Rodrik greeted them, they turned away from the merriment below to speak with their two servants - and Ser Rodrik handed over the message. "A guardsman just rode in from the hills. They've captured a deserter from the Night's watch."

The laughter died on Ned's face - and he grimaced at the news. This was perhaps his least favourite duty of being a great Lord: passing down sentences and handing out punishments. But it needed to be done. "Get the lads to saddle their horses," he said to Theon. Theon nodded and turned away. As he walked, he heard Lady Cat asking if this was really necessary. He was out of earshot by the time Ned replied - but he knew what he would say.

Robb and Jon saw him coming, as he crossed the yard towards them. A smirk lit up Robb Stark's face, "coming to join in the fun, Theon?" he asked, "did my father relieve you of your duties so early today?"

"Or did you balls something up and get sent here to stay out of trouble?" Jon asked.

Theon bristled, inwardly. It was true Ned had never been cruel to him, never locked him in the dungeon - never chained him, never treated him as the captive he was, day to day … but nevertheless, now he was a man, he was expected to make himself useful to the running of the castle in a way that Robb and Jon were not. They had time to teach their brother to shoot, or to go out riding, or to practice swinging their swords at each other - Theon, on the other hand, had to work - long and hard - to pay for his own upkeep. Even though he didn't want to be here in the first place. This was not how it would be if he had stayed at home, on the Iron Islands. If he was still in his rightful position, then he would command scores of ships by now - leading them in raids, reaving and raping their way through the shoreside villages of the mainland; taking what was theirs, paying the ironprice. Instead, he was acting the squire to his gaoler. And Gods alone knew who led his father's fleet.

But he swallowed it all down. He was Theon of House Greyjoy - ironborn - he didn't bitch and whine when things didn't go his way, he took like it a man. His father had bent the knee - was loyal to King Robert Baratheon, now - and Theon followed his father's lead and remained loyal to Ned Stark. Was the dutiful ward. Did what he was asked; worked hard - to make himself hard - to keep himself ironborn. Didn't loll around like a pampered little shit. The ironborn were made of stronger, sterner stuff than that. He was learning things Robb would never know - whilst he was forced to work for Ser Rodrik - useful things, real world things; this would help him be a better ruler when he returned to his rightful place as Lord of the Iron Islands.

He kept all that firmly in mind as he plastered his grin across his face. He was always grinning, always smiling - sometimes so much it made his face hurt. But it was his armour. Looking happy, looking amused, acting as if all of life were just part of some giant cosmic joke that no one else had quite understood: it was the best and surest defence against letting people see the truth of his heart. Keep on smiling - and the bastard's will never know they're getting to you. He knew Lady Cat found his constant smirks infuriating. Even Robb found them irritating. So Theon kept on smiling.

"We've a bit of excitement," he told the two half brothers, his grin wicked and wide. "Deserter from the Night's Watch. Your father says to grab your saddles, boys, it's time to go head chopping."

Robb and Jon glanced at each other. Their expressions were matched - and mirrored perfectly the look of sorrowful distaste that Ned had worn when he'd heard the news. Jon began to walk to the stable, slow and heavy, as if the news were weighing him down. As Robb passed Theon, following his brother, he glanced at his father's ward. "There's no need to look so happy about it," he said. His tone sounded as disgusted as his face had looked.

Theon watched him go, again bristling at his words but keeping it inside. Robb might find a bit more reason to look cheerful at the prospect of an execution if, previously, the next hour of his life had been looking like consisting of taking a horse to get fitted for a new shoe, and interrogating some laundry maids about Sansa Stark's pissing missing petticoats.

**#**

They rode out to where the guardsmen had the deserter captured: Lord Stark, his true born heir, his bastard, little Bran, Ser Rodrik and Theon. It wasn't a long ride, but it was far enough away from the walls of Winterfell that the bloodshed need not taint their home. Theon had been given Lord Stark's biggest sword to carry for him. Ice. The ancestral greatsword of House Stark. It's blade was of Valyrian steel - forged so it would never need honing, it's edge would never dull - no matter how many lives it took. Ned always used it for executions, the sharpness of the blade ensuring a swift and merciful death. Ser Rodrik always said there was nothing worse to watch than a botched beheading; seeing a man with a blade to the neck and yet still live, choking on his own blood as he waited for the second blow; praying this one would end it all. Lord Stark did not take his right to hold a man's life in the balance lightly and, when judgement must be passed, he did what he could to bring kindness in death.

Theon still remembered, clear as day, the afternoon - years ago - when Ser Rodrik had taught him, Robb and Jon all about blades, how to keep their weapons sharp, how to check the balance and weight of a particular sword; make sure that it was suited to the one who would wield it. That was the first time Theon had seen Ice. Robb had spoken of the ancestral sword that would one day belong to him, and Ser Rodrik had shown it to them - though not let them touch it; explaining the legendary properties of Valyrian steel - and why Lord Stark would always use this weapon, in particular, to take a life. Still new to Winterfell, Theon had shuddered at the thought of the raven arriving with news of another rebellion by his father, of Lord Stark passing judgement on the little boy in consequence of Balon's actions, and of using Ice to take his head.

The years had dulled the fear he felt every time a raven arrived at the castle. The longer his father didn't rebel, surely the less likely it seemed he would? As the years turned, Balon must grow old? his warring years must be behind him? And there was never any news of another trueborn son being born to House Greyjoy. His mother must be beyond all that, now - if she still lived. Theon had learned - over the long years - to allow himself to feel safer, feel - as he acted the brother to Robb, the squire to Ned - that his position was surer. The longer he stayed with the Starks, the more he became like them, must surely lessen his chances of dying at their hands - so far from the sea.

But handling Ice always left him ill at ease, as if his own belly was filled with ice, whenever he touched it. Never could he quite shake the sensation of feeling the freezing sharpness of Valyrian steel against the back of his neck, whenever he came into contact with the sword that would carry out his punishment, should it ever prove necessary...

They found the guardsmen and their prisoner on an open moor - about a mile from the edge of the forest that surrounded the castle to the west. They had already set up the executioner's block - there was only one punishment for desertion of the Night's Watch, and the men of the watch knew it before they swore their oath. There was no need for a trial, no hope of reprieve.

The men from the Winterfell party dismounted their horses. Robb and Jon kept Bran to the side, standing with him as he witnessed his first man die. They had the luxury to keep slightly back - for now. One day it would be Robb who passed the judgements, who brandished the sword, but for now he could keep his distance. Theon had no such luxury, he approached the block with Lord Stark and then presented the scabbard to his master.

The deserter was babbling to himself as the guards led him to the block. "White Walkers. I saw the White Walkers. White Walkers. I saw them." The man was mad - White Walkers were long gone, a thousand years or more. It had probably been the endless cold, the driving snow and the throbbing in his balls from life as a celibate that had made him take leave of his senses. And whilst it seemed cruel to kill a madman, it was probably kinder than letting him live forever; as the burning between his legs addled his wits - with no hope of ever lying with a woman again. What would be the point of living like that?

The deserter faced Ned and said his final words. "I know I broke my oath. And I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the wall and warned them. But I saw what I saw. I saw the White Walkers. People need to know. If you can get word to my family. Tell them I'm no coward. Tell them I'm sorry." There was a moment of quiet - and then Ned nodded his assent. The guards positioned the deserter so his head was on the block - and Ned turned to his squire.

Theon bowed his head, as Ned drew the mighty sword, and saw the pale Northern light gleam against the blade. Lord Stark nodded his thanks and The younger man stepped back, still keeping his head respectfully bowed.

He was always respectful to Lord Stark, even if he struggled to keep the bitterness and sarcasm from his voice when he spoke to Ser Rodrick, to Robb even - he always kept his voice even when he spoke to his Lord. For if Balon Greyjoy should ever rebel, even after all this time, then Lord Stark was the man who would pass judgement on Theon - and swing Ice at his neck for his father's crimes…

Lord Stark was a great man. A man loyal to his King. A man devoted in protecting the North - whatever that required. But above all else, Theon knew Ned to be an honourable man. Fair and just and dutiful. If Theon served his Lord faithfully, loyally, made himself useful in any way he could - never complained, and accomplished any task set him quickly and well - then perhaps Lord Stark would hesitate in passing judgement. For was it truly honourable to kill a young man, who had been devoted and true - had done all that was asked of him, for crimes committed by his father? For crimes committed by a man the boy had not seen in many years, a man the boy no longer knew, no longer served?

Theon's position at Winterfell had always been precarious - would always be precarious. No matter how much of a brother he was to Robb, how faithfully he served the household, he was forever completely reliant on the goodwill and charity of Ned. And even as that knowledge burned inside of him, he knew that honour was more important to Ned than almost anything else. He had instilled that value deep into the hearts of his sons - and into Theon. And perhaps, if Theon always treated his master with honour and loyalty, that favour would be repaid if the day ever came that the Iron Islands rose again. Perhaps Ned would see that a Greyjoy did not have to be the enemy of the Starks - even if their houses were at war. Theon's respect for Ned - and his honour - was heartfelt, but he never underestimated the importance of being useful to the man he served, as the only bargaining chip he may have for his life.

Theon watched as Ned bowed his head over the greatsword and began to speak the formal words of the sentence. "In the name of Robert Baratheon, first of his name…" Theon had seen many executions over the years he had been at Winterfell. He had seen many more back on Pyke, though the method here was more sudden - more final… and more merciful because of it.

"King of the Andals and The First Men."

Theon had seen too many executions to need to look away - though he could hear Jon Snow, whispering to Bran, telling him he needed to watch. On Pyke, those that broke the law were tied down to four stakes on the beach - and left to wait for the tide to come in. They drowned slowly. Watching a head be removed quickly and cleanly, with a blade, was something the young Ironborn man had had to get used to seeing. The sudden gushing of blood from the neck wound, the thump as the head hit the floor, the now headless corpse being lifted by the armpits and dragged away. Such a quick death: whole and living one moment - and a corpse the next. Beheading may be an easier way to die, but it was harder to understand as an onlooker - how just one slice of a blade could stop everything, end everything a man had ever been. Watching him drown: grow weak, choke, pass out and slowly lose his grip on life, was easier to comprehend. The lengthy transition - from living man to corpse - made so much more sense than the finality of the blade. He remembered what it was to be Bran, in this moment. Remembered what that first time was like. Seeing that terrible finality, trying to understand it. Bran was scared, now. But he would be harder - stronger - once it was done. It was his first step into being a man - into being a great Lord.

"Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the Realm. I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

No matter how many times Theon heard those words, he would always feel a chill down his spine. Knowing that any day it could be his own head on the block, it could be him those words were aimed at. His whole time in the North, no matter how at home he grew to feel here, all that had ever stood between him and the block was his father's good behaviour - and Lord Stark's mercy. Of the two, he felt that the latter was the surer bet - hence why he always did as the great Lord bid him. But he must never let those shivers of fear be seen by the others. He was ironborn - and the ironborn did not show weakness. So he did the only thing he could, to hide his own disquiet: stood a little taller and wore his smile as his armour.

Ned raised Ice high in the air. The deserter had his eyes squeezed tight shut - and was murmuring prayers beneath his breath. The greatsword was swung, plunging down towards earth in a graceful arc and then - there was the sound of the metal hitting wood, and the thump of a head rolling across the grass. Theon kept his face impassive. Better this than searching for missing petticoats.

Behind him, he heard the two young men ushering their younger brother away - telling him how well he had done. Bran had not blinked - he would be a man yet. Without a word, Ned handed his sword back to Theon and went across to where the youngest boy was making ready to mount his horse. Theon cleaned the blade, assiduously, before sliding it back into its scabbard. He looked down as he worked, mindful of his task - but he could hear the conversation between Ned and Bran.

"You understand why I did it?" Ned asked him.

"Jon said he was a deserter."

"But do you understand why I had to kill him?" Ned's voice was gentle, but there was an urgency that told the listening Theon how important it was to the great Lord that his son understand why he acted the way he did. He had never spoken to Theon this way. He had always been kind - always made sure that his little ward got the same training as his own sons, that he wasn't left out. But he had never gone out of his way to ensure that Theon understood the way a Lord should act - the way he had with Robb, the way he did with Bran now. One did not teach the sons and heirs of enemies how to be Lords of their own Houses. Duty and honour were in the very air of Winterfell - and Theon couldn't help but imbibe it - but no one had ever taken the time to speak with him, as Ned now spoke to Bran. Never taken the time to make sure he understood. He felt envy at the way Robb and Bran got lessons, got a part of Ned, that Theon could never have.

But then he shook his head - disavowing his own thoughts. Even if Ned had taken the time to train him in duty and honour and everything that was so important to the Starks - he was not a Stark. It would not teach him how to be a Greyjoy. And the Iron Islands would not want a Stark as their ruler. Theon needed to remember their ways - the old way - if he wanted to rule his own people, to be ironborn. What he was born to be. He did not need lessons in how to be a Stark.

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." He heard Ned say. That was Stark honour. He knew it was something that Ned believed in, that a Lord must make no other man carry out his own unpleasant duties. Must not place a burden on others which he was not willing to carry himself. It was good - a good way to think, a good way to be. Theon admired Lord Stark for standing by it - it brought him some, admittedly cold, comfort that - in the event of his own execution - Ned would have to face Theon himself. Swing the sword and see him die - and live with the burden of having killed a man that had been placed into his protection as a child. He would not make another man do it, would not hide away. Ned would be the last thing Theon saw. And he would have a chance to appeal to his mercy.

It was a good rule - and Theon liked it. But it was no good to him as a Greyjoy. When he was the Lord of the Iron Islands, he wouldn't be executing by swinging swords - he would be tying men to stakes and leaving them for the Drowned God. Their way was the old way and he would have to abide by it. Stark honour would do him no good on Pyke.

He attached the greatsword firmly to his saddle - as he heard Bran ask about the White Walkers. Bran was too young to know you could be driven mad by aching balls, didn't know to discount the ramblings of a man whose senses were lost to the throbbing of his own cock. There was nothing to worry about. Ned said it better though, Theon heard, didn't bring balls into it. "A madman sees what he sees." Lord Stark was kind and fair to everyone - he could find it in him to be kind to the man he had just executed, and he could be kind to the man he held captive. There were few in the world who were as good a man as Eddard Stark was - and Theon knew he was lucky to be raised and trained by such a man. But he still shouldn't be there. Didn't belong there. Ned's kindness would not be necessary if Theon wasn't his … ward.

**#**

They rode back to the castle by a different path, this one led them through the forest, crossing the river at the bridge - instead of at the ford they had crossed by earlier. But as they cantered across the wooden planks, their party was forced to a halt. The road was blocked by the body of a ravaged stag. One of its antlers had been ripped away - and there were vicious claw and tooth marks on its flank. Flies were beginning to gather, buzzing round its wounds.

"What did this?" Robb asked. The stag was large - a fine beast, and had clearly put up a good fight. But there were precious few creatures in this forest that could take down an animal of this size.

"A mountain lion?" Theon guessed, looking at the claw marks. It must have been something savage and wild and big. But Ned shook his head. "There are no mountain lions in these woods." Theon frowned. He should have known that. He had lived here long enough, hunted here often enough - he should have known what beasts dwelt in the forest around his home … not that Winterfell was his real home. He knew well enough which creatures swam in the seas round Pyke. Of course he did.

They dismounted their horses and drew their blades, spreading out along the road as they began their search through the copse for whatever animal had killed the stag. They could not let something so ferocious roam free. What if it had not been them that had happened across the body - but one of the smallfolk, unarmed and on foot? Or the Lady Catelyn out for a ride? They needed to find whatever had done this and deal with it - to keep their people and their home safe.

It was Ned who found the creature - and called the others to him. It was already dead - the stag may have fallen, but it had taken the other animal with it. The missing antler was lodged in the creature's throat. Blood matted it's once glossy fur. Once again, the flies were gathered - and between its legs, by its teats, five pups whimpered - and tried to suckle. Theon had never seen anything like it before. "It's a freak!" he said.

"It's a direwolf," Ned told him, "tough old beast."

He should have recognised one. The Direwolf was on the Stark banners - he had seen their heads fluttering in the breeze everyday for nine years. Everyone else seemed to have recognised it for what it was, at once. He wondered why he had not.

"There are no direwolves south of the wall," Robb said - although this was clearly no longer true.

"And now there are five" Jon said - pointing to the pups. He picked up the nearest one and held it out to Bran, "do you want to hold it?"

Bran took the baby direwolf into his arms and snuggled it close. "Where will they go?" he asked his father, his voice was anxious. "Their mother is dead."

"They don't belong down here," Ser Rodrik said, gruffly. Ned listened to him, nodding his head. "Better a quick death. They won't survive long without their mother."

Ned was always merciful when it came to death. It was better - more honourable - to kill them now, quickly and suddenly, so they didn't know what was happening, than it was to leave them to die slowly out here, of starvation, or exposure. Or getting eaten by some other beast.

Eager to show Lord Stark that he had learned the lesson of being honourable whilst passing sentence, and eager to show that he was always useful to the great Lord - could undertake any task no matter how unpleasant, Theon stepped forward - dagger raised. He tried to take the little pup from Bran, "right, give it here then." But Bran twisted away from him in alarm.

Robb shoved him backwards, "put your blade away" he snapped at Theon - and the ironborn man could hear the disgust in his voice. He bristled, again. Robb was his equal - not his master, he had no right to speak to Theon like that. "I take orders from your father, not from you," he snapped back, heatedly. Sometimes Robb needed to remember their relative positions - sometimes he acted as if he were Lord of Winterfell already, and Theon were nothing.

But it was more than just Robb's high-handed, lordly manner putting Theon's back up. He heard the judgement - the contempt - in Robb's tone, just because Theon were willing to carry out Ned's orders - and he wasn't. Robb had no right to judge him for doing as Lord Stark asked. His position and safety in the North were entirely dependent on his being loyal and faithful to Ned. He did what Ned told him - he hadn't the luxury not to. But Robb would never take the time to understand that - and would probably only see it as more reason to look down on him, if he did.

Bran was pleading with his father, but Lord Stark was not listening. Theon was still trying to get to the pup in Bran's arms, when Jon Snow spoke up. "Lord Stark? There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. They were meant to have them."

Everyone turned to stare at Ned, Theon's dagger was still poised - ready to do what he was bid the moment his Lord commanded it. But Lord Stark sighed, shook his head and relented. "You will train them yourselves, you will feed them yourselves and if they die, you will bury them yourselves." Bran looked delighted, and snuggled the pup closer.

Theon put his dagger away, and took two more of the pups as Jon Snow handed them across. There was a sinking feeling in his gut. He had been so ready to do as Lord Stark asked; so ready to prove his usefulness and loyalty to Lord Stark; show he was faithful to his master's house; that he understood Lord Stark's honour and the importance of being merciful. But then the tides of opinion had shifted - and it turned out Stark mercy meant keeping the pups as pets, not giving them an easy death. Robb and Bran had known that. Ned had realised that. Theon had had to wait to be told. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how well he served, it seemed he could only ever second guess what the Stark sense of honour would mean - and in this case he had guessed wrong. It didn't matter he told, himself, as he turned away from the dead direwolf, the pups wriggling under his arms. He was a Greyjoy - not a Stark. They had different honour. Different duty. And it didn't matter he didn't get a direwolf for himself. A man of 19 had no need for a puppy.

"What about you?" he heard Bran ask Jon.

"I'm not a Stark - get on."

Theon was not the only outsider, at least. Jon was a pompous, self righteous prick - but at least Theon wasn't the only one outside of the family, proper.

As they scrambled back up the bank, there came the sound of whimpering - from behind one of the trees. Jon went to look - and pulled out a sixth and final direwolf, holding it up by its scruff. This one was pure white - and smaller than the others. Theon turned back to look - one last direwolf. He laughed. "The runt of the litter," he said, "that one's yours, Snow."

Jon glowered at him, but said nothing - and Theon continued to laugh, as he clambered back towards the road. It hid the sinking of his heart. There had been a direwolf for Jon, after all. Jon was not an outsider - not like Theon. He belonged in this family - and fate was going out of its way to prove it. And to prove that Theon was not one of them. Could never be one of them. For there was no seventh direwolf hiding in the undergrowth, there would be no direwolf for a Greyjoy. And he sincerely doubted that a kraken was likely to appear in the forest for him to befriend. He had no place here - did not belong here - and it seemed the Old Gods, themselves, were making sure he knew that.

But he could not let on, could not let the others see. And so he hid his loneliness and discomfort the only way he knew, by wearing his smile wide - like armour.


	3. Winter is Coming: 2

**Winter is Coming: 2**

Several days passed by, each as uneventful as the one preceding it. After the excitement of executing the deserter, everything slid back into its normal groove - and slumped into interminable ordinariness. Theon got on with his chores - he spoke to the women in the laundry, got them to agree that if the petticoats just happened to turn back up no more need be said about it. He never got more orders from Catelyn to go back and speak to them again, so he assumed Sansa's smallclothes were back in her own possession.

He counted arrows and took inventory, he took the horse to the blacksmith and got it shoed, he spoke to the stablehands about ordering more feed and he rode out with Ser Rodrik to collect rents from the villages. As he went about his tasks - always busy with the running of the castle - he would sometimes catch a glimpse of one or more of the Stark children playing with and training their direwolves.

Rickon and the girls had been delighted when the party had returned home from the forest with a pup for each of them. All six of Ned's children had sat in the great hall, in front of the fire, their own pup in their lap - naming them, tickling them, starting to give them commands. Theon had watched them, smiling and laughing as they smiled and laughed - but unable to join in. He had sat on the edge of their little group and tried not to let it bother him.

Lady Cat had sat in a chair near the fire, as her children played with their direwolves, and Theon had got the distinct impression that she was watching him, as she worked on her embroidery. Every time she would pull her needle through the linen, she would pull the thread tight; holding the needle high so that it flashed in the firelight like a silver sword, and she would use that moment to cast a covert glance in the direction of the youngest Greyjoy. He didn't know why she looked at him; whether it was to try and divine what he was feeling, or if she was just annoyed at him intruding on their family gathering, but either way he had been determined to give nothing away - to not let on what was in his heart. So he had fixed his smile in place - the one that he knew irritated her so much - and had laughed along with the group, not showing for a moment the loneliness he felt at being the only one who had nothing of his own to love.

And whilst he tried to bury those pangs of loneliness deep down inside of him, he was a man of nineteen - and a Greyjoy, Ironborn no less - loneliness was not for the likes of him, he would still feel a flash of heartache, of being the outsider, of not belonging, every time he saw Bran with Summer, or Sansa with Lady, or Robb with Grey Wind. Even Jon Snow had Ghost. And he had no one. Not that he had time for a direwolf of his own, even if the Old Gods had seen fit to gift a Greyjoy with the symbol of the Starks. Unlike Ned's born children, Theon had to work to earn his keep at Winterfell. He did not have time for teaching a direwolf pup tricks when there were messages to carry, stock to take and produce to order.

At night he would take Cicely into his bed, try and bury away the loneliness and the tedium in her. And it would work - for a short while - as he sunk himself deep inside of her and felt himself enveloped in her warmth and desire, he would feel like the man he was supposed to be. Confident and sure, who knew what he wanted and he took it - just like any ironborn. This was the one place where he felt he had mastery. Where he held control. He was good in bed, good with women - Cicely's moans told him that much. And as he thrust away on top of her, ramming himself, over and over harder and faster, into her warm depths - he would forget the indignities of squiring for his captor. And during the day, when the chores became too dull and the hours were too long, the memory of Cicely writhing beneath him, or of her plump, round arse shuddering up and down as he took her from behind, was what got him through. A squire by day, perhaps, but lord and master by night - the king cock. Better than Robb, better than Jon. The frantic tumbling amongst the bedclothes, once the darkness fell, was the very best of his life… But when he would roll off her, sweaty and sated, she would rise from the bed - sometimes without so much as a backwards glance. Sometimes with her prurient smiles and her teasing laughter. Never with words of love.

Even the kitchen maid wasn't his. She desired him - desired the pleasure his cock could give her - but she didn't care to lie in his arms afterwards. Not that that mattered to him - of course it didn't matter to him. He was the last living son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands - one day he would rule his homeland, himself - have a highborn woman as his lady and as many saltwives as his cock could manage without dropping off. The Lord of the Ironislanders, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, did not crave the affections of some Winterfell kitchen slut. That would be beneath him. Or that was what he told himself, as he drifted off to sleep - once Cicely had left him all alone, again.

**#**

It was about ten days after the deserter had been executed, raving madness about the whitewalkers, when - crossing his yard on the way to the saddlers - Theon saw a raven flying overhead. Although the years had dulled the immediate sense of panic he used to feel whenever a message was sent to the castle, although he no longer truly feared that today would be the day word of another Greyjoy rebellion came - and they would come for his head, he still was never able to completely ignore the arrival of a raven. And this one gave him more than enough reason for disquiet - as it caused rather more disturbance than was usual.

Just before he ducked into the little stall where the saddler worked, he heard the Maester come running along the walkway of the keep - above his head. 'A raven just came my Lady,' he heard Luwin say. There was a brief moment of silence - as Lady Catelyn read the message - and then he heard her voice. It was trembling. 'Where is Ned?' she asked.

'In the Godswood, my Lady.'

'I must go to him. Tell him at once. Find Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, speak with him and then speak with Robb. We must prepare. At once.'

'At once, my lady.' Then there was the sound of the Maester's footsteps, again, as he hurried away - and Theon did not get a chance to discover anymore until he was done collecting the saddles.

He threw them over his shoulder and trudged back to the stable, thinking very carefully. It couldn't be … Something had happened. Something big - that much he was sure of, but it couldn't be that.

The gateway to the castle lay open - and he glanced at it, as he passed by. Maybe he should run. All these years as a captive, he'd kept his promise - never run away but now … If his father had rebelled again, declared himself King and seized the crown of salt and rock, then he couldn't just stand around Winterfell and wait to be beheaded - like that mad Night's watch man.

He entered the stables and hung the newly repaired saddles back in their place. He was being hasty, he told himself. Something had happened - but there was no reason to suppose the worst. Maester Luwin had been sent to speak to Robb. If it was what he feared, then Robb wouldn't just stand by and let it happen. He would speak to Theon - warn him, before Ned came for him - wouldn't he? They were friends. Brothers. Robb would give him a chance to escape - help him, even. He finished up and made his decision. He would go find Robb - find out what was going on, put his mind at ease or - if the news was the worst - flee Winterfell before Lord Stark was even back from the Godswood.

He found both Robb and Jon out in the tilting yard, swinging their swords at the straw dummy they had hanging for practice. 'Are you winning?' Theon asked them, as he approached them - he fixed his most knowing smile to his face, 'or can the straw man hit harder than you?'

Robb stopped what he was doing and looked at him. 'Theon,' he nodded. Theon couldn't help but notice how serious both the young men looked. He swallowed nervously, but hid it - as ever - behind the wideness of his grin. 'What news did that raven bring?' he asked them, hoping his voice sounded just as lazy and casual as his smile looked. Robb and Jon glanced at each other. Theon felt his stomach lurch, and held himself still - grinning away, as if there were a great joke happening and only he could see or understand it.

'The news came from King's Landing,' Robb told him.

'What was it?'

'It came from the King himself - John Arryn is dead.'

Theon felt the sweet relief rush through him - the sudden release of his anxiety leaving him weak and light headed. 'John Arryn dead - is that all?'

'Arryn was like a father to Lord Stark,' Jon Snow said, his tone was disapproving as he spoke to Theon. It was always disapproving when he spoke to Theon. Self righteous little prick that he was. He knew nothing of what Theon had been afraid of - knew nothing of how this bad news for Ned was good news for Theon - actually leaving him dizzy and weak kneed with relief. He had no idea of what life was like, watching out for every raven … and still he judged Theon for his reaction. 'This news will cause my Lord father much grief,' Jon said, both his eyes and his voice conveying his condemnation of Theon's seeming ignorance and lack of empathy.

'And Arryn was Hand of the King,' Robb said - resuming his sword swinging, 'he did much of the work of the realm, Robert Baratheon will need someone else to do the work of ruling the Seven Kingdoms for him whilst he hunts and whores his way through his kingship.'

'How does that affect us?' Theon asked. They were so far north. The intrigues of King's Landing were nothing to the vast lands above Moat Cailin. They were too remote - they were more concerned with the goings on beyond the wall than they were with what the soft southern Lords got up to in their soft southern lands. And the presence of the Night's watch meant they didn't have to concern themselves overmuch with the wildlings beyond the wall. This might be big news to the King's small council, but it didn't amount to a hill of beans to the Lords of the North.

'The King also wrote that he and his court are coming north,' Robb told him, 'he is bringing the queen and their children to Winterfell.'

'So?'

'Robert Baratheon is only coming this far north for one reason,' Jon said, 'he might not have written it, but he is coming to Winterfell because he intends to make Lord Stark the new Hand of the King.'

'But Lord Stark is Warden of the North,' Theon protested, 'he can't swan down to King's Landing and start ruling the whole realm. He's needed up here. What will we do without him?'

Robb said nothing and continued to swing his sword at the straw man. Jon watched his half brother, answering for him when he did not speak. 'Robb will be acting Warden of the North, and Lord of Winterfell, in his father's place.'

Theon stared at Robb - who kept on swinging his sword in practice strokes against the dummy - If Jon were right, and he always was - the smug cunt, then soon Robb would be taking on the mantle he was born to wear. He would rise up to be the greatest and most powerful man in the whole of the North … and Theon would be Robb's squire. Robb's captive.

**#**

Over the next few weeks the whole of Winterfell was a tumultuous mass of busyness and activity, getting ready for the arrival of the royal party. There was never a quiet moment and the maids worked day and night: scrubbing and polishing and sweeping - Cicely even stopped coming to Theon's bed, she was too busy during the day to rut all night - and late to sleep and early to rise. As he lay alone beneath the furs, he tried not to think about it - tried not to miss her. The Lord of the Iron Islands - even if he were just the heir apparent - did not lie in his bed dreaming of kitchen sluts. He could get his end away with any wench that caught his eye. Cicely was just convenient. That was all. If he missed anything, it was the thrill and the thrust and the pleasure - not _her_.

But when he wasn't lying there dwelling on Cicely - then he was lying there dwelling on the changes that must come to Winterfell. On Robb becoming the acting Warden of the North whilst he, Theon, remained squire and hostage. Over the years he had come to accept his place as Ned's ward, growing up in the Stark Household and training to be a lord underneath the most powerful lord in the seven kingdoms, second only to the King himself. He had told himself that there was honour in being the ward of Lord Stark, that it was a privileged position to hold, that he was here so that - when he returned home to rule in his father's stead - he could help integrate the Iron Islands with the rest of Westeros, bring about a golden age - bring glory to his house and prosperity to his people. And he was learning all that under the tutelage of a great man and a proven soldier.

But once Ned was gone - what was Theon? Robb was no proven soldier, no great lord to teach and guide others … and yet he would be standing in Ned's place. Theon could not be the ward of a man who was younger than him - that idea was an outrage, a humiliation - but without that position he was only a prisoner. A prisoner who acted as a squire to a man several months his junior and less skilled in the arts of war.

He rolled over onto his stomach and punched his pillow as the hot shame of his fallen position surged into his belly. Robb was going to ascend to the position he was born to far earlier than expected. And as Robb's importance grew, Theon's would slide in the opposite direction. Robb would be Lord of Winterfell and Theon would be less than he already was. No longer a ward, only a captive. He flipped over onto his back again and stared up at the ceiling. He was still the son of a king. He would always be the son of a king. He was a Greyjoy - their family had ruled the Iron Islands for 300 years and there wasn't a house in the Seven Kingdoms that could look down on them. That would not change. He would just have to make sure that Robb always remembered that.

At least, now there was so much to do, his days were less frustrating than his nights - a complete turn around from the way it had always been. As the preparations continued apace, he was removed from his normal duties. Lady Cat and Maester Luwin took over the stock taking for the house, worrying about candles and barrels of ale and silverware and sweetmeats, and Ned joined Ser Rodrik in the readiment of the castle walls and the stables. These tasks - which Theon did every day, which he could perform with his eyes closed - were now deemed too important to leave up to him. Winterfell needed to be a tightly run ship for when the King and his entourage arrived; everything in its place; nothing missing; nothing overlooked - they could not dream of leaving that to the squire to get ready. So Theon was freed from the grinding, mindnumbing tasks that made up his usual everyday existence - and he was not going to complain.

Instead - as one of the most skilled marksmen in the castle - he was sent out into the forests, day after day, to shoot at pheasants and partridges and hares with his bow. He spent hour after hour stalking through the woodland with Robb and Jon, hunting game to feed the King. And - as he was the best with the bow - it brought him no end of delight that - day after day - he was the one to hit the mark most often, the one to bring in the most kills.

As the light would dwindle, the shadows would lengthen and the sun would begin sinking beneath the horizon, the three young men would collect up the last of their kills, shoulder their bows and return to the castle. This was the most fun and freedom Theon had had in a long time - and when he was out in the wild, just him and his bow and arrow and the terrified fleeing of some small creature, he could forget why he was being given this sudden flight from responsibility. Forget what would surely come after.

But, as soon as they returned through the gates of Winterfell - and Robb and Jon would take themselves off to their chambers whilst Theon was left to take the brace of partridges of hares to the kitchens, he came back down to earth and remembered his place with a bump. Robb was the trueborn heir, Jon was a bastard but with the freedom of the castle, and Theon was the squire. And soon Robb would be the Lord, and Jon would work to support his brother's rule, and Theon would still be the squire. Robb's squire. Always, as he entered back through the gates of the castle, the gloom would settle upon him again - and it would remain with him until the next time he went hunting.

One evening, as he crossed the courtyard with the spoils of their hunt - headed for the kitchens, he saw Sansa sitting outside with her Septa - they were sewing in the evening sunshine. He could hear some of their conversation, floating on the air towards him. Sansa was talking about the upcoming royal visit and - more specifically - Prince Joffrey. She was always talking about the Prince these days. 'They say he has the most golden hair,' she told her Septa, 'and the handsomest face - and that he looks magnificent on horseback.'

The Septa had her lips pursed, as if she had heard other rumours pertaining to the Prince, which were less flattering than the ones Sansa believed, but she said nothing.

'They must be thinking of finding him a wife, don't you think, Septa?' the young girl asked. Theon could hear the way she was straining to keep her voice casual. 'He is of an age where he should take a wife. But the trouble is - who is a fit wife for a prince? Whoever she is would be queen one day - so she would have to be very high born. Her father would have to own an awful lot of land, don't you think, Septa?' The Septa chose not to reply - and instead told Sansa to concentrate on her stitching. Sansa pouted. Walking past them, Theon smiled in amusement, as he listened to the young girl's attempts at subtlety, putting herself forward as the future queen without coming out and saying it. If she got her way, she would be even grander than Robb.

He made his smile wider - purposefully stretching what had been a small, natural smirk of amusement into a cocksure and knowing grin. All thought of Robb soured his mood - and he couldn't let anyone see, let them know what he was feeling. Even the thought of Sansa becoming the queen left a bitter sting in his heart. She was just a girl - pretty enough - but barely more than a child, so his feelings for her had never run the way they did for Cicely, or the girls in the brothel down in the village but still … it had been a silly, foolish, secret hope of his. He'd held it deep in his heart for … almost as long as he had been here. That one day Ned would decide to marry him to Sansa, turn his ward into a true son - make Theon a real part of his family, make him truly belong at Winterfell, his position assured. A Stark in all but name - an outsider no longer.

But now it seemed like Sansa was hoping that she would find a match with the son of the King - and he realised just what a fool he had been to ever hope. She was destined for far grander things than himself. Ned Stark would never match his eldest daughter to the prisoner son of a traitor, when she could be married to the Prince, would never even consider making his ward a proper part of his family. Great families did not become so because they married for sentimentality - but because they made political alliances in the marriage bed. Sansa could make a far better match than Theon - even if she didn't manage to snare the Prince.

He shook his head. Being Lady Greyjoy, mistress of the Iron Islands was no mean prize, he reminded himself. Theirs was a proud and ancient family, they ruled their own lands, their own people. Sansa could do a lot worse than Theon … but then he thought of his home on Pyke, how bleak and how cold and how windswept it was. And he thought of Sansa and her love of comfort and pretty things. The Ironborn were hard - they had to be - and they had to have hard wives. He couldn't imagine Sansa would be very happy on Pyke. the thought of a match with her was a daft notion and he should put it out of his head forever. It was never going to happen.

But it was still hard to watch the children he had grown up with move and on and start to take their place in the world, whilst he was still trapped here - the oldest of all of them - a squire, a prisoner, and with no sign that anything would ever change.

He trudged into the kitchen, feeling the dark cloud of his own captivity hovering above his head. But on the outside he wore his smile wide and cocky. The gloomier he felt the bigger that smile became. It was all the defence he had against the reality of his situation. Against admitting exactly who and what he was - and seeing that truth reflected in the eyes of the people who held him prisoner. And in the way they spoke to him. He didn't care, they couldn't get to him and he was completely self assured in his position as the former Prince of the Iron Islands and the future Lord Reaver of Pyke - that was all he would ever let any of them see. He would wear that on the outside until it was the truth on the inside. No one here would ever have the satisfaction of seeing their ironborn prisoner give in to a moment's doubt. He would make damnded sure of it - even if he had to grin so wide and so long it made his face ache.

Cicely was in the kitchen, seasoning a plucked chicken with herbs, ready to roast it. He slapped his latest catch - his brace of pheasants - down on the large table in the centre of the kitchen and then wrapped one arm around Cicely's waist from behind, as she worked. He used his other hand to squeeze her breasts and nuzzled his face into her neck, kissing her. But she only laughed and shrugged him off, 'get away little lord, I'm busy.'

'I can be quick,' he told her grabbing her again, 'if you'd prefer.'

She just laughed, 'I'd prefer you to leave me alone when I'm working. What would the mistress say?'

'She'd realise you were helpless against the power of my cock,' he said, nuzzling into her neck once more. He felt himself harden and pressed against her - so she could feel his sudden stiffness against her backside.

'That cock's going to get you into a lot of trouble one day, little lord, and I haven't a mind to get in trouble with you. Now shoo.' She shunted him off her, using her arse to push him and his erection away from herself. 'Will you come to my bed tonight?' he asked her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, 'I haven't the time.'

'It's been weeks.'

'And your cock hasn't dropped off yet - you can wait a few more days until this whole royal visit is over.'

'But then you'll come to my bed?'

'We'll see. Run along - and see to yourself until I've time to see to you.'

**#**

Finally, when every surface was scrubbed and polished; when the hall was festooned with branches and streamers; when there were fresh candles in every candle stick and firewood piled up at every hearth; when there was food enough prepared to feed an army and drink enough to sate even Lord Tyrion, Winterfell was declared ready - and then it was the turn of the inhabitants to prepare themselves for the royal visit.

Lady Catelyn had called in the barber and ordered the three older boys to get proper shaves and haircuts. They stood in the small chamber, shirts off, and took their turn. Robb went first - sitting in the chair and having the barber cut his curls and then begin to spread the soap across his face, ready for his shave.

'Why is your mother so dead set on us getting pretty for the King?' Jon asked in disgust. He loved his hair - more than any woman, the soft prick - he wouldn't be appreciating being made to get it cut.

'It's for the Queen, I bet,' Theon told the others. 'I hear she's as sleek as a mink.' The tales of Cersei Lannister's great beauty were famed up and down Westeros. The most beautiful woman in the world, they said, even now she had a grown son and more children besides, there were still none - even half her age - who could hold a candle to her. Theon was looking forward to seeing if that were true.

'I hear the prince is a right royal prick,' Robb said, as the barber finished the last stroke of his shave.

'Think of all those southern girls he gets to stab with his right royal prick,' Theon said. He was willing to bet that Prince Joffrey never got shrugged off by a kitchen wench too busy to service him, and told to pleasure himself until she had more time. With his golden hair and handsome face that already had Sansa wet before she'd seen him - and the power that only a future King could wield - Joffrey would never be turned down by a woman, in his life. No matter how much of a prick he was. Rejection wasn't for princes and kings. It wasn't even for lords. It was for smallfolk … and prisoners.

Rob got out of the chair - wiping off the last traces of soap with a cloth - and pushed Jon into the chair. 'Go on Tommy,' he said to the barber, 'shave him good. He's never met a girl he liked more than his own hair.' Jon glowered up at his brother, as the barber grabbed his curls and began to shear them. Theon shook off his introspection to laugh in delight at Jon's annoyance.

**#**

The next morning, the whole castle awoke early to get any last minute scrubbing, sweeping or cooking done. The royal party was expected at some point later in the day - and the whole of Winterfell had to remain in a state of constant readiness until they arrived.

It was Bran Stark who saw the Royal procession coming up the road, first. He had been climbing high up on the towers and the walls and had spied the sight of the dust clouds on the road when they were still miles away.

And then there was a mad, frenetic hustle and bustle as every single person in Winterfell - from the lowliest scullery wench right up to Ned himself - tumbled out into the main courtyard and, smoothing down aprons, and slicking back hair, stumbled and scurried their way into a receiving line. Lord and Lady Stark were at the front of course, Robb stood beside his father and then Sansa next to him. All the trueborn children were in the front row - except for Arya who was missing, much to Lady Cat's dismay - whilst Theon and Jon were relegated to the second row, alongside Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel.

Ned gave the order and the gates were hauled open - and the first of the horses came riding in. Arya ran down the line, and fought her way into her rightful place between Sansa and Bran, shoving her younger brother out of the way with a rough, 'move.' Lady Cat looked on disapprovingly, but behind them Theon and Jon were laughing. They straightened their faces, however, when a white horse rode in - carrying a blonde teenaged boy, dressed in gold. This must be Prince Joffrey - the right royal prick. He looked a smug cunt - even worse than Jon. He looked pleased with himself. And - though from his position behind her, Theon couldn't see her face - it appeared from what he could see that Joffrey and Sansa seemed very pleased with each other. The Prince smiled down at the line of people, but there was no mistaking who he was looking at - and his smile was cocksure and arrogant.

Robb must have noticed as well - because he glanced at his sister and - when his face was in profile - Theon saw the grimace of distaste plain in his expression. He felt another pang in his heart, as he watched the Prince - the heir to the Seven Kingdoms - smile down at Sansa. He liked her - or at least he knew she was likely to be his bride and liked the idea of owning her. With the possibility of her becoming the Queen, she would never accept the much lesser prize of Lady of the Iron Islands. Nor would Ned want it for her. Theon would never be a true Stark … unless he waited for Arya. But that would take even longer.

He bit the inside of his lip and let the sudden pain of it force his mind away from this line of thinking. He did not need to be a Stark - true or otherwise. He was a Greyjoy - that was more than enough. Better. He had his own family and his own home - and he would return there one day, he didn't know when, but one day - and he would choose himself a bride. Not be married off by the man who had held him prisoner half his life. He could never be free of the Starks if he married into them.

He took a deep breath - and stared up at the other horses riding through the gate. He felt his smile spread across his face, knowing and superior. These were Lannister men riding in now. Even the Lannister's couldn't look down on the Greyjoy's. He might be relegated to the second row with the bastard and the more trusted servants … but he was the equal of Jaime Lannister, better even. As a member of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime couldn't inherit his father's lands at Casterly Rock … whereas Theon would one day be Lord of the Iron Islands. He supposed Lord Tyrion must now be the heir to the Lannister lands and fortune … and Theon was _twice_ the man Lord Tyrion was.

The painted carriage, carrying the Queen, rolled into the courtyard and then in rode the King, Robert Baratheon - on his massive, white Stallion. He was even fatter than Theon remembered.

The whole of the receiving line bent the knee and kneeled before their king. Robert heaved himself down from his mount and waddled his way over to them all. Theon sneaked a glance upward, remembering the last time he had seen the King - when he had first been taken prisoner. Robert Baratheon had grown rounder and redder since that day, long ago. His face was florid from too much wine, his hair and beard were beginning to streak with grey. But his voice was still the same raucous boom that Theon remembered, the clap of vocal thunder that had announced to everyone at the tournament, without even meaning too, that Little Theon was a prisoner and a traitor.

'Ned!' He roared, signalling for all his subjects to rise. The receiving line struggled back to their feet and Ned bowed his head. 'Your Grace.'

'You've got fat!' Robert yelled at him. Ned just glanced at his king - up and down - taking all of his rotundity in - and the pair of them began to laugh. 'Nine years!' Robert said, said, his belly still quivering with his laughter, 'why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?'

'Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.'

It was the wall that kept out the wildlings - the wall and the Night's watch. Down here, Ned had been guarding the North from other threats, Theon thought to himself - from the raids and uprisings of the Ironborn. He had been guarding the North from the Greyjoys - and Theon was the traitor in their midst. As Theon had secretly hoped to join Ned's family - Ned had been guarding his lands against him. He would never truly belong here.

And - as if to prove it - the King was now walking along the line talking to the trueborn Stark children. To Robb. And ignoring Theon trapped back in the second row.

'Who have we here? You must be Robb?' Robert said to eldest Stark, then he turned to Sansa. 'My, you're a pretty one.' He moved onto Arya. 'and your name is?'

'Arya.'

And then onto Bran. 'Ooh show us your muscles. You'll be a soldier.'

The Queen had got out of her carriage and made her way over to her husband and the Stark's. She _was_ beautiful - with the longest, golden hair and the finest silk gown. There were not women who looked like that up here in the frozen North - or back on the windswept Iron Islands. There was a softness to her complexion - to the milk and honey of her skin - that suggested she had only ever been kissed by the warm breezes of the southern climate, never chapped in the freezing winds of the higher kingdoms.

But - for all her beauty - her expression was not soft or yielding. She had the most determined mouth Theon had ever seen on a woman, and calculating eyes. She may have been raised in feather and down, satins and spices, sunshine and gentle rains - but there was an inner steel to her. A hardness that radiated out of her that, for all the time she had endured in the freezing North, Lady Cat did not have. She was a strange creature, the Queen - a beauty - but no fool.

It seemed, however, that the King cared for neither his wife's looks nor her intelligence. 'Take me to your crypt,' he said to Lord Stark, 'I wish to pay my respects.'

'We've been riding for a month my love,' Queen Cersei said to him. She smiled - and her tones were soft - but there was still that metal edge beneath her words. 'Surely the dead can wait?'

But Robert ignored her and - with an awkward glance at the Queen, Ned led the King away towards the Winterfell crypt. She tutted and turned away from the people, her cheeks flaming with humiliation, and headed back to her brother, Jaime.

The receiving line broke up - and everyone headed back to their work. Theon followed Ser Rodrik to the stable.

'Where's our brother?' he heard the Queen hiss at Ser Jaime, as he passed them by, 'go find the little beast.'

And then the excitement was over - and it was back to work for the captive squire of Winterfell.

**#**

The stables were crowded, noisy and busy - room was having to be made for far more horses than were normally kept - and these horses needed to be unsaddled, rubbed down after their long journey, and fed. Theon and Ser Rodrik were helping the stablehands with their new charges - and were working to restore calm amongst the rearing horses, the whinnying and the snorting.

As he carried a bale of hay over to the nearest stall he almost tripped over Arya - who was running in and out, watching all the excitement. 'Watch where you're going!' he said to her.

'_You _watch where _you're_ going!'

'_I_ can't see over this hay bale.'

'That's not _my_ fault!'

'Get out of here!' he pretended to aim a cuff at her ear - and she ran back outside, giggling. He laughed a little to himself, shook his head and got on with his work.

Hay bale deposited, he came back of the stall, dusting his hands off and saw Ser Jaime Lannister enter the stables. Theon kept his head down and got on with feeding the next horse - but he listened as Lannister told the groomsman to saddle his horse, and then accepted the offer of a fresh one, instead - to give his own mount time to rest. He was riding down to the village to look for his brother - the imp. The groomsman gave the knight directions and then Theon watched as Ser Jaime led his new horse out of the stable.

Arya was still hanging around outside, watching the hustle and bustle, and - as Ser Jaime prepared his horse he smiled down at her. 'And what are you doing round here, little one?' he asked, 'shouldn't you be somewhere quiet and clean, playing with your dollies?'

'I don't play with dollies,' Arya replied- staring up at the knight unflinchingly, her voice hard and disgusted.

'So what does a little girl like you do for fun up here in the frozen north - if dollies are out of the equation ?'

She stared up at him full of distrust and more than a little dislike. Theon stopped what he was doing and walked over to them, he put his hands on Arya's shoulders and she glanced upwards, giving him a brief thankful smile. Then they both turned their distrustful eyes on Jaime Lannister.

Jaime looked at Theon, looked him up and down - and then a sudden look of recognition crossed his face. 'Gods,' he muttered to himself, shaking his head and - with no more attempts at friendliness to Arya - climbed on his horse and rode away.

'That was the Queen's twin brother,' Arya said - watching him go, she twisted to look up at Theon. 'Why didn't he like you?'

'He was at the sack of Pyke. He was part of the army that crushed my people and took me prisoner.'

'Well so was father - but he doesn't shudder just to look at you. I heard Ser Jaime Lannister was supposed to be the bravest fiercest knight there was. He killed the mad king and has never been defeated in battle.'

'I've seen him defeated in battle,' Theon shrugged, 'sort of - at the tournament the King threw to celebrate my Father's defeat. He rode against Ser Jorah Mormont in the final. Mormont broke nine lances against him and was declared the winner.'

'I'd like to be a knight,' Arya said, wistfully. 'I want to learn to fight and do battles and take part in tournaments.'

Theon laughed, 'you can't do that! You're a girl!'

She looked troubled. 'Well I'll cut my hair off and pretend to be a boy, then. I'll run away and find someone who will train me.' But Theon only laughed again - softer, though, and more reflective. 'You don't want to do that,' he told her. 'It isn't good to live life so far away from the people you belong with - pretending to be something you're not. It's a lonely way to live - and the loneliness does things to you, shapes you until you're something new entirely - but still not what you wanted to be.'

'How would you know?' Arya asked, her face twisted in confusion. He didn't answer her - and instead told her to run along, whilst he got back to work.

**#**

As the sun set and the fires and candles were lit, Theon finished up in the stables and headed for the Keep and his own chambers. He needed to get clean and ready for the feast. On the way up to his own room, he stopped by Robb's and rapped on the door and then entered. Robb was just finishing dressing, pinning on his best fur cloak with his biggest, gold brooch.

'Any news?' Theon asked him.

'It was as we thought. The King has asked my Lord Father to be his hand - and asked for a match between Sansa and Prince Joffrey.'

Even though he knew it was coming, Theon felt a sudden pang - a stabbing pain in his chest at the knowledge he was losing any chance with Sansa. Not that he had ever had a chance. 'When will they get married?'

'My father hasn't agreed yet. To the marriage or to be the Hand of the King.'

'But he will.'

'Aye,' Robb said heavily, 'he will.'

Theon forced his smirk onto his face. 'Well that should suit you right down to the ground, shouldn't it? Your father away - you acting Lord of Winterfell, before you're 20th nameday.' His smirk became sly. 'Think you can handle it? All the Lords of the North looking to you to defend them against wildlings and raiders and traitors. Up to the challenge?'

'As long as the traitors inside my own walls don't get any ideas in their heads.' He stared at Theon - long and hard … and Theon forced a laugh and then left the room, headed up the staircase to his own chambers.

**#**

The King was growing evermore ruddy faced with his ale, his laugh becoming ever more raucous and booming. He had a wench on his knee and was pawing at her - in full view of everyone. Theon glanced up to the top table, to see what the Queen made of this. She did not look happy - and Lady Cat looked just as uncomfortable. sat next to her, trying to pretend she and everyone else did not notice the King's indiscretion.

But everyone noticed - packed as the great hall was, it was impossible not to see and hear the King - no other man shouted so loud, or took up so much space, even from the distance Theon was sitting, he could still hear every word that thunderclap voice belted out - still see the red creeping across the King's skin and the way his crown was beginning to topple from his head as he gave way to drunken bawdiness. From up close - where the Queen and Lady Catelyn were sat - it would be impossible to ignore. But both were striving to ignore it - Lady Cat to pretend she didn't notice, and Queen Cersei to pretend she didn't care.

Theon had been sat at a distance from the Stark family, for the banquet, he was sat with Ser Rodrick, Jory, Maester Luwin and some of the sons of the Northern Lords who had come to Winterfell for the royal visit. Robb of course, was in pride of place as the son and heir - much closer to the royal family. But it could be worse - Jon had actually been barred from attending, on the orders of Lady Cat. She felt the presence of a bastard would offend the Queen and so Jon had taken himself off somewhere to sulk. At least Theon got to be at the banquet - got to eat the pheasants and hares he had hunted, got to watch the goings of the royal court come North.

The fires roared in their grates and the candles flickered and guttered in their chandeliers. The whole room was filled with the acrid smoke of the flames, floating through the air. Gods it was hot in here, so many important people - from the north and south - rammed into the chamber, packed together, rubbing up alongside each other. The smell of sweat mingled with the smell of smoke. The serving girl's made their way through the crowds the platters of the feast held high, as they brought them round, dodging between all the merrymakers. And the noise - everyone in the great hall shouting to be heard over everyone else. And above it all - the King's great booming laughter.

Across the room Theon noticed Robb's uncle Benjen enter the chamber and meet with Ned. Benjen was in the Night's watch - but it seemed he had been allowed away from that freezing pile of shit whilst the King was visiting his ancestral home. The two brothers were talking - of course Theon could not hear what they said from this distance - but they both looked serious. Though that didn't mean much, the Stark men were not known for their frivolity and merriment. They were a serious bunch.

He saw Robb get up from his place and go over to greet his uncle - but looked away when he heard the King explode in a raucous guffaw and start groping beneath the serving wench's bodice. Theon turned his attention back to the Queen - who was still sat in her seat, her whole body rigid as she pretended she could not see what was going on. Lady Cat was trying to talk with her, to distract her from her whoring husband.

As he watched, Sansa got up from her place at the table and went to speak with her mother and the Queen. She gave the Queen a very neat little curtsy - and Cersei smiled at her, seeming to ask her some questions, seeming to take a shine to the eldest Stark girl. Theon felt that pang in his heart again - and squashed it down low - she was barely more than a child and he didn't want _her_. And a Greyjoy did not need to be married to a Stark to be worthy of their place at the table. But the pang came back - twice as hard - as he saw Sansa and Prince Joffrey smile at each other as she walked off.

He looked across the room at where Robb was talking with his father and his uncle, and back to where Sansa was covertly smiling at the Prince… and it struck him how everyone else was growing up and moving on. Robb would be Lord of Winterfell once Ned was the Hand of the King, and Sansa would be married - to a prince no less. And if the redness of Robert Baratheon's face heeded the state of his health, she would be Queen before very much time had passed at all. Maybe even Jon would go up to the wall and join the Night's watch - if Benjen was here … everybody else got to grow up, move on, take their rightful place in the world. Except for him. Theon Greyjoy - forever a prisoner. Soon to be the hostage and squire of a younger man. He glowered darkly at the thought.

'You've got a face on you like thunder, lad,' Ser Rodrik noted - yelling above the noise. 'You got a stomach ache?'

'No,' he shook his head, 'I was just thinking - about what's to come, the changes that will happen to the castle.'

'Aye,' Ser Rodrik nodded, he too looked thoughtful as he considered how everything would be different once Ned was gone. 'But you've nothing to be worried about - as long as you make yourself useful to Robb, do as he says once he's Lord, nothing will change for you. You're a lucky lad. They'll treat you well.'

'Yes,' Theon said through gritted teeth, 'the Stark's are so very kind to me.'

'And don't you forget it.'

Theon inhaled sharply and didn't answer, instead he looked away from the old knight and scanned around the room, wanting to end the conversation. Arya flicked a spoonful of meat and gravy at Sansa and it spattered across the older girl's face. She shrieked and protested and Ned, hiding a smile, told Robb to take Arya to bed. Robb grabbed hold of his youngest sister and took her from the chamber, she fought and protested the whole way - but he kept a firm grip on her.

Theon smiled to himself, biting his lip so Sansa did not see him laughing at her - and the rest of them… but then he became aware of someone watching him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and the strange tingle run down his spine that was peculiar to realising you were being observed. He looked around the hall, trying to find who it was that was suddenly paying attention to him, tucked back here below the salt.

It was as he scanned the top table that he made eye contact with Jaime Lannister. It was the Queen's own brother who was staring at him - as if he were dangerous, as if the knight couldn't quite believe that Lord Stark allowed his captive to roam freely inside the walls of the castle. Theon stared back at him - and Jaime Lannister lifted his goblet to his lips and drunk deeply from his wine, feigning a lack of interest.

'You know,' Theon said to Ser Rodrik, 'I think I might have a stomach ache after all - if you'll excuse me,' he nodded at the knight and Jory and the Maester and then stood up and walked out of the great hall. He felt Jaime Lannister's eyes on him the whole way, though he did not look round to see if he were truly being watched or if he was just imagining it.

**#**

The cold, night air came as a welcome relief after the heat and the fug of the great hall. The breeze slapped him in the face, the icy tinge to the wind stinging his skin and chapping his lips, he sighed to himself - glad to be out of the crowds and the din.

But now he was revived by the bracing air, he suddenly didn't want to go to bed. He headed for the kitchens instead - and sure enough, there was Cicely - scrubbing the pots now the feast was served. He wrapped his arm around her waist from behind and groped her breast. 'Leave that and come with me,' he said to her, kissing her neck.'

She tried to shrug him off, 'I'm not finished.'

He nibbled her ear, 'someone else can do that.'

'My orders are to get this lot cleaned up.'

'Well you have new orders now, from the Lord of the Iron Islands.'

She laughed out loud. 'From the heir to Iron Islands,' she corrected. 'You're not Lord yet, Theon Greyjoy - and even if a raven arrives tomorrow proclaiming you King of Pyke - you're still not Lord of _this_ castle. It's not your orders I follow.'

'I could take you back to Pyke,' he said, getting the lobe of her ear between his teeth and giving it a little bite. 'Make you my salt wife. You'd follow my orders then.'

She lifted her arm to wrap around his head, pressing him closer as he kissed her neck - and leaned back into him, her eyes were closed and she was smiling. 'And on that day, I'll do whatever you tell me, _My Lord,_' she gave him a sudden shove, 'but until then - I follow the orders of the Lord of Winterfell. Now run along - I'm hoping I might get taken to the bed of a southern lord tonight. I want a taste of something more exotic whilst I've got the chance. You can come back when the southerners are gone. I might have something for you then, little Theon.'

'I'm not little,' he leered at her, trying for another grope of her breast. 'Southern cock is nothing compared to mine.'

'Well if you like your cock so much - you go and have a little play with it yourself, there's a good boy.'

'It is my favourite toy,' he whispered into her ear, kneading her breasts with one hand and pinching her arse with the other. 'But I'm such a kind boy I like to share it around.' He grabbed her for another kiss - but she only laughed and shoved him off and - defeated - he left the kitchens and headed back to the keep.

**#**

It was as he walked through the courtyard, past the stairway to the guest chambers that he noticed two figures standing in the dark. Or more like one and a half - for one of them was a half man, the imp - Lord Tyrion. He came to a standstill - not wanting to be seen listening in to a conversation. A Lannister probably did not look kindly on eavesdroppers - but he wanted to hear what he imp had to say, Theon had heard he was reportedly a great mind - and did not want to disturb them by going past.

'To see him - just sitting there,' the taller man was saying, and Theon recognised the voice, realising it was the other Lannister brother - Jaime. 'Bold as brass, in amongst the Northern Lords … it was like seeing a shark at the top of a mountain.'

'Come now,' Tyrion's voice was reproving, 'he is not to be blamed for the misdeeds of his father.'

'You were not at the siege of Pyke, dear brother, I can still hear the screams of dying men.'

'He was just a harmless boy when all that happened.'

Theon felt his stomach lurch, as he realised it was him they were talking about.

'A harmless boy back then, perhaps' Jaime said, 'but what is he now?'

'I hear he's a very fine squire.'

'Eddard Stark must be mad to keep him around, working for the household.' Jaime shook his head, 'never trust a Greyjoy.'

'I make it my business to never trust anybody.'

'Even me?'

'Even you, dear brother,' their voices began to fade as they climbed the stairs towards their own rooms and, once he was sure they were gone, Theon continued on his way to his own chamber. He closed the door, stripped off his cloak and then down to his small clothes and crawled in under the furs without even lighting a candle. He lay in the dark. So that was what people said of him, not just in the North - but across the Seven Kingdoms: he was a very fine squire - but still a traitor not to be trusted, by virtue of his name. He was blamed for the Greyjoy rebellion he was too young to be a part of and mocked for being a hostage. And soon he wouldn't even be Ned's hostage - he would be Robb's - and what would they say of him then? Sleep was fleeting that night - as he lay alone in his bed and stewed over the injustice of his position - and his reputation.

But, little as he slept the night before, he still needed to be up at the break of dawn the following morning. The King was going hunting in the forests surrounding Winterfell, and Theon needed to help ready the horses before he could join in.

**#**

The bustle and clatter in the courtyard grew slowly louder, as the sun rose higher in the sky - and by midmorning, all the horses were saddled and ready and all the noblemen and manservants were mounting them. The King arrived, along with Ned, deep in conversation - then they got on their horses and the King roared, 'come on boys, let's kill some boar!' and the whole hunting party rode out through the gates.

Theon was near the back - Robb was much further forward of course - but he tried not to let that bother him and instead concentrated on enjoying the sensation of bounding along the land on horseback, the wind blowing away the cobwebs from his disturbed night of sleep. The adrenaline, the blood pumping through his veins, the thrill of the chase, the danger of being gored … all that would help drive his dark thoughts away - for the time being. And whilst his position near the back of the party firmly put him in his place in terms of his rank - it meant that he was out from the distrustful and distasteful glare of Jaime Lannister. From where he was, Theon couldn't even see the Queen's twin brother - he must be so far in front. It seemed the knight had done nothing but glare daggers at Theon and mutter about him since he'd arrived at Winterfell, and the younger man was happy to realise Jaime must have at last found some better way to occupy his time.

The hunt lasted for hours - and Robert was insatiable in his lust to keep on going - but finally, as the sun was starting to set, they managed to stick the poor hog and bring him down. The triumphant party rode back to the castle, just as the first few stars came out - peppering the twilight sky.

They didn't realise anything was wrong until they had all rode back in under the walls and entered the courtyard - and there was no one there to meet them. There was a deathly hush over the whole place - and the men looked around uneasily, as their horses reared and whinnied, wanting to be back in the stable. And then the Maester came out of the keep, hurrying, looking deeply troubled - Theon could see that, even from a distance, and his stomach lurched as he wondered what the bad news was…

Luwin whispered something to Ned, who got down from his horse and followed the Maester back to the keep, without looking round - without speaking to anyone. Robb got down from his horse and hurried after his father - his face equally grim. And then the whisper of the rumour started to spread among the hunting party, from those close enough to have caught some of what Luwin had said: Bran Stark had been found lying at the bottom of the tallest tower - unconscious and broken. It was believed he had fallen - and he was not expected to live.


	4. The King's Road

**The King's Road**

Despite the busyness of the castle, the way the very walls were heaving under the strain of containing the royal party and their retainers, and the way every inhabitant of Winterfell was dancing to attendance to make sure everything ran smoothly and their regal guests never did without - there was still an eerie hush descendant upon Winterfell. People went about their work quietly, subdued - making little conversation. Any laughter sounded jarring and unnatural and was quickly broken off - as if merriment was now an obscene thing. There was no singing or whistling or the telling of bawdy tales. And Lady Catelyn had not been seen in weeks. She remained by Bran Stark's side, never leaving him even for a moment.

The little boy still lingered - clinging to life but not awake. Maester Luwin had declared that the danger had passed, that the boy should live, but it was still not known when he would waken and if he would ever be the same. For now he slumbered in the shadow lands between life and death and Catelyn stayed with him, determined she should be there the instant he needed her.

Once it was deemed that Bran was out of the woods and in no immediate threat of dying, Ned had begun to prepare for leaving the castle, in earnest. And this meant that Theon was kept busy making sure that the Warden of the North had everything packed and ready for his journey south. As Sansa and Arya would be accompanying their father, they also needed to be readied for the journey - and as Lady Catelyn was not available to oversee these preparations, it fell to their Septa to organise their travels and, as with the case of the missing petticoats, small tasks would occasionally be delegated to Theon to sort.

He spent the days running between the stables, to talk with the grooms about readying the horses, and the laundry to make sure all the clothes were being cleaned (and none of them stolen), and speaking with the Maester - when he could find the time - about making sure a chest of medicines would be ready to be taken on the journey in case of misfortune and ill health. He ran errand after errand and carried message after message - all across Winterfell - and when that was done he was in charge of overseeing the servants actually packing and loading the Stark's belongings, and keeping the inventory to ensure nothing was missed or lost.

And on top of all that - whenever he got a spare moment - he was still being sent out into the forests surrounding the castle to hunt game. The royal party were still guests and they still needed feeding - even amidst the commotion and the tragedy, the custom of hospitality must still be strictly observed. So Theon would be sent out into the woods with his bow and arrow to bring down whatever game he could find, and return it to the castle for preparation and cooking so that the King and his family could feast night after night - even if their hostess had not been seen since the night of their arrival.

As he ran from pillar to post - from one task to the interminable next - he would sometimes catch glimpses of the others, going about their business. Robb, whenever he saw him, always looked grim and serious - and Theon was not sure if this was worry over Bran, or the weight of his incipient position that was causing him to look so cast down. Rickon was never far from his older brother - following him around like a shadow. With Bran suddenly all but dead, his mother absent and his father busy, the child seemed very lost and clung to the only stability he had.

Benjen Stark was still at Winterfell - and somehow, between scurrying from one job to the next, Theon had managed to discover that he was indeed taking Jon with him to the wall, when he returned. Somehow Jon had managed to convince his Lord Father that he was ready for such a step, Ned had relented and Snow would be taking the black. Perhaps it was the imminent loss of Jon, on top of everything else, that caused Robb to look so grim. After all, not only was he unexpectedly rising to the rank of acting Warden of the North much earlier than had ever been thought, but the man raised as his brother - his second in command - was leaving at that exact moment. Leaving him alone.

Theon had mixed feelings about Jon leaving. On the plus side, he would be relieved to be out from the judgemental gaze of that smug prick, who always did everything right, always made the right choices - for whom being right came as naturally as breathing, and who looked down on those - on Theon - who found it much harder to take the right path. And the loss of Jon would elevate himself in importance, once Robb was Lord of Winterfell - it would be he who was the brother, the second in command - for there would be no one else, no one else high born - raised and trained as a lord, to act as Robb's advisor. But on the other hand - Jon going to the wall, as Sansa and Arya left for King's Landing and Robb took on his father's mantle, was just another reminder that everyone else got to grow up and move on except Theon. Nothing had changed for Theon since he was 10 years old - and sometimes he feared it never would. He would live in this castle and he would die in this castle and he would always be a prisoner.

One person he was forever catching glimpses of - because he was impossible to miss - was the golden haired Prince Joffrey, who swaggered around the castle like the cunt thought he owned the place. Everyone in Winterfell thought Joffrey was a cunt - including his own uncles - and all the servants tried to give him as wide a berth as possible. But the pampered prick took delight in cornering the kitchen girls or laundry maids - not to wench with them, but just to frighten them - make them uncomfortable, trap them somewhere with no escape and let them try to simper and sweet talk their way out. They couldn't just laugh and push him aside - the way they would if Theon tried that, they had to stroke his ego, do anything he asked … but he really just liked watching their fear, and when he grew bored of them he would strike them and then walk away, as his victim would take great lungfuls of relieved breath.

He was also always swaggering up to the stablehands, or lads in the smithy, or the butcher's boy and confronting them. Challenging them to a fight and then laughing, sneering at their cowardice when they wouldn't fight back. As if every man in the North couldn't knock that soft southern shite on his arse without even trying. But no servant was stupid enough to agree to fight the Prince, it would be more than their life was worth - especially if they beat him, so Joffrey would strut away thinking he was a hard man.

The only time the Prince would ever behave himself was if Sansa was nearby, and then he was all courtly manners and romance. And she would giggle and blush and look very pleased with the prize she was getting - and appeared completely blind to what a cruel little cunt she was about to be tied to. And no matter how much time passed, how often he saw her blush at Joffrey's attentions, or how stupid he thought she was for not seeing through them - Theon always felt the pang in his chest when he thought about her marrying anyone but him. She would be a princess and then she would be a queen - and he would always be a prisoner and never a member of her family.

To try and ease the pain - to convince himself he was being weak and foolish and that a Greyjoy had no need or desire for a Stark wife - he went back to pestering Cicely, and eventually she gave in and returned to his bedchamber at night. As he buried himself deep inside of her he found escape at last. He felt his thoughts begin to lose coherence - as if an anchor had been pulled up someone deep inside of him - and now his mind was floating free, focused only on the pleasure, on her tightness and warmth - the roundness of her breasts, her supple skin blushing crimson in the candlelight, and the throbbing, grunting ecstasy as he neared his release. He rolled away from her, panting, sated and spent; the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin and his heart beating thunderously in his chest. He stared up at the ceiling but saw nothing but blackness, as his whole body reverberated with the crashing echoes of his pleasure.

As his breathing slowed and the aching and tingling receded, his thoughts came floating back - coalescing and regrouping into a sudden whole - anchored to his body once more, and he realised he was imagining that that had just been Sansa in his bed, Sansa he had taken and thrusted inside and made a woman. That she had seen through Joffrey - seen his cruelty, seen he was nothing but a golden prick - and chosen to be the Lady of the Iron Islands instead. And he had rutted with her - and the Greyjoys and Starks had become as one in the marriage bed, with the Greyjoys on top.

He grunted and rolled over so he was looking at Cicely. There was no point in dreaming of what could not be. And he had worked long and hard to get Cicely back in his bed - too long and hard to spend the time thinking about another woman - a girl even. He smiled up at the kitchen wench and then grazed along her arm with his lips. "I missed that," he said softly.

She didn't return his kisses. Instead she sat up in the bed and clutched the sheet against her breasts. "You need to get used to it," she said.

"Used to what?"

"Missing it - missing me."

It was Theon's turn to sit up, he propped himself up on his elbow and peered at her quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"We can't do this anymore, this was just one last time - for old time's sake…" she took a deep breath. "I'm getting married."

"To _who?_" He couldn't keep the tone of frustrated annoyance out of his voice.

"Farlen," she said.

"_The Kennel master?" _He began to laugh disbelievingly, "he's old enough to be your father."

"He's a good man, Theon Greyjoy," she retorted, blushing, "he works hard…"

"_I _work hard."

"And he'll take care of me. There's no future with you. You won't make me Lady Greyjoy, you won't take me home with you - if you ever go back, and you have no real place, here in the castle." He inhaled sharply at that, but she didn't pay attention. "I've got to think of my own future, I can't be a bed warmer for you my whole life. I need security. I want children - not bastards - a real family of my own. Farlen will give me all that - and he's kind. I could do a lot worse."

"So … this is it - you're just going to walk away and marry the old man that keeps the dogs? What - you're going to live in the kennel with him? - Raise your family in there like a bitch and her litter of pups…"

"Theon," she interrupted him. She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips, "don't," she said, when she pulled away. "Just don't. This is the end. You knew it couldn't last forever. You don't love me. You were never going to marry me - we always knew, both of us, this wasn't to last. So let's at least part as friends? Say goodbye - and promise to toast me at my wedding."

"If you could just wait until I can return home…"

"Then you still won't marry me - you'll find some high born noble bride to be Lady of the Iron Islands - as you should. I don't want to be a salt wife on a miserable rock like Pyke. I want to marry and raise a real family here, in my own home - among my own people. I know you don't want to hear this but ... Little Lord - can you truly look me in the eye and tell me it was me you were thinking of whilst we lay together just then?"

He looked at her - and then swiftly averted his gaze, biting his lip and blushing as the image of Sansa swam in his mind's eye. She smiled - a little sadly. "Told you," she said. She kissed him again, "goodbye Theon."

He grunted - and he didn't look at her as she rose from his bed, got dressed and left the room. He didn't look at anything but the ceiling until he heard the door shut behind her. One more person moving on - growing up - leaving him behind.

**#**

He was in a bitter and foul temper the whole of the next day - and the eerie quiet of the castle only acted to stifle and suffocate him further. As he carried a chest of Lord Stark's clothes through the courtyard, struggling slightly beneath the weight, he caught sight of the figure of a woman slipping out of the gateway to the kennels. She was cloaked - but he knew it must be Cicely. A moment later, Farlen appeared in the gateway, a slight smile playing on his lips. He saw Theon just standing there staring at him and nodded in greeting, 'Theon.'

Theon managed to nod back, "Farlen."

"Haven't you business to be doing?"

"Haven't you?" he walked off, his temper worse than ever - and slammed the chest down inside the bed of the wagon that was to carry Lord Stark's things to King's Landing. The noise of the wood smacking against the wood clapped out into the silence of the courtyard like a tree being felled. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. He blushed, muttered 'sorry' and then stumped away to collect the next chest.

It was on what seemed like his hundredth journey across the courtyard, staggering under the weight of yet another trunk, that he saw Rob - sword out - grimly taking swings at the straw man. Rickon, as ever now, was sat close by - watching him. Theon stopped what he was doing, put the chest down and watched with Rickon as Robb continued to fence with the dummy. After a few more feints, Robb sheathed his sword and turned to look at Theon. "Are they my father's things?" he asked, nodding at the chest at Theon's feet.

Theon nodded, "yes - we're nearly done: clothes, scrolls and weapons all packed and ready to go. Your father should be off any day now."

"Aye," Robb's expression became even more grim.

"And then you will be the Lord of Winterfell," Theon said. He plastered his smile onto his face - knowing and superior, hiding beneath his grin the way his heart fell at the thought.

"Aye."

"Able to do as you please, run the North as you please."

"I'll run the North in my father's name - as he would run it. And I can only pray - to the Old Gods and the New - that I will live it up to it. That I can care for all the people, the lords and the smallfolk, as he would. What I please has nothing to do with it."

"And you know I'll always be there at your side - to help you, to support you, to do as you command," Theon told him, earnestly. "My advice, my sword - whatever you need - is yours. Always."

"But when the sun sets, and the summer ends… it is only me who will be the Lord, who everyone will look to put things right. No one will be expecting anything of you, Theon Greyjoy, the responsibility will be all mine."

Theon bit the inside of his lip so hard he could taste blood - but the smirk remained on his face. He was trying - by the Drowned God he was trying to master his jealousy, fight down his anger and be there for Robb. To not let Robb see how much this troubled him, to not add any more to the cares weighing his friend down. He was offering to help ease the burden, to share those worries with him … but Gods Robb made it hard. He was always so dour, and so quick to assert his position - to remind Theon of his own inferior one. He didn't even know he was doing it - he was just naturally like this. The son and heir - bearing a security and assuredness that Theon could never really have. The only thing he could do was pretend - pretend he had that same confidence in himself and his position. Pretend that he and Robb were equal. So he smirked wider, ruffled Rickon's hair and then picked up the chest and walked away, leaving Robb to his own melancholy thoughts.

**#**

The sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon, the shadows were lengthening and soon it would be too dark to continue working. The day was all but done - and with Robb brooding and Cicely engaged, the evening offered no promise of excitement. Just more Godsdamned Lannisters. He couldn't face the thought of another meal in the packed great hall, the Northerners still trying to put on a show for the Southern Lords - all though they had been here a month, now - and had surely seen everything there was to see, surely understood the truth of life in the North.

But as much as he couldn't face the festivities in the hall, he also couldn't face spending the evening alone confined to his chambers - with no Cicely to warm his bed.

Although the night was drawing in, the gate to the castle was not yet closed and, as he placed the last chest into the wagon, Theon eyed it up carefully. He could slip out, he thought, in the gathering twilight no one would see. He wouldn't be missed - everyone was too busy and no one really cared for him, cared enough to notice he was gone. He could walk down to the village - to the brothel, buy himself a meal and spend some coin on a woman - and make up for the loss of Cicely. He could get his pleasure in a whore's bed just as well as he could get it in his own - and then he could return to Winterfell and back through the gates, just as they were opened for the morning. No one would ever have to know.

He finished securing the chest, dusted his hands off and got down from the wagon, whistling casually. With a glance around to make sure he was unnoticed, he began to saunter in the direction of the gates - not looking like he was directly heading there just … strolling. He nodded pleasantly at people as they passed him and, once he was closer to his goal, he stepped into the shadows of the wall so he was lost in the gloom. He crept quietly towards the open portcullis and lingered behind an outcrop of the wall until the right moment.

It was Jory Cassel on duty. Jory probably wouldn't stop him from leaving, would tell him to have a good time and would let him back in in the morning no questions asked, but … it was more fun to sneak out. It gave him a feeling of achieving something, of triumph over his captors, if he could get out without any of them knowing. If he could go missing for an entire night and have none of them know where he was, to have none of them even realise they had lost him. It made him feel less trapped, less like a prisoner. He stayed because it was honourable to do so, not because he couldn't get away. The Stark's couldn't hold him unless he chose to let them. And he did choose to - because he knew his duty, to his father and to Ned - but he was a free man really.

He waited for the right moment - for Jory to walk to the far end of the gate and to be facing in the other direction and then - as quickly as he could move - he slipped through the gate and immediately turned left and pressed himself against the castle wall. He kept close to the walls, creeping around the side, until he reached a place away from the view of the gate. He glanced upward to check there was no look out up there on the wall - and then broke cover and ran to the edge of the forest. Once inside the first line of trees, he allowed himself to slow down - took a few deep lungfuls of air and then walked away towards the village, whistling and laughing.

It felt good - escaping Winterfell. It felt strangely exhilarating, like a part of him was waking up after a deep sleep - coming alive again. His heart pounded in his chest - even though he was not really doing anything so very terrible, there would be no real repercussions if he were found out. But it still felt good. He would have to do this again sometime - escape Winterfell, break free of his prison. And as he walked down to the village, he wondered what it would be like to escape for real - to leave with no intention of coming back, to try and go back home. Would they send the dogs after him? Would he have to run through the forest and splash through the river to try and throw them off the scent? Would he be able to make it or would they catch him? And what would they do to him then? But then the thought of the dogs, made him think of Farlen - and Cicely - and his mood soured again.

**#**

It was pitch black by the time he reached the brothel, he had had nothing but the light of the moon to guide him through the forest - and then the firefly pinpricks of the distant village lanterns to guide him to safety. But he got there in the end - and when he opened the door was engulfed in a welcoming wave or warmth and noise. The fire burned merrily in the hearth, the ale was flowing in the tap room and women were wandering around in various states of undress, cupping their breasts or pouting their lips - tempting the patrons to take them into a private room.

Theon sat down at a table and when a little man in a greasy apron came across, he ordered the mutton stew and a pint of ale. Once these were brought to him, he sat and ate quietly, in his corner, watching the girls. One of them started to watch him back. She was a pretty thing - with red hair and dark eyes and lovely, white skin. He gave her his most knowing smile and she gave one right back - quirking her eyebrow. He nodded and she came over to him, sat on his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. From this angle he could see right down her bodice and admire the swell of her creamy cleavage.

"You're a pretty one," he said to her. She wriggled in his lap, grinding against him, "I'm a good one too," she replied, still with that knowing smile. Her voice was knowing as well, cocksure and confident. "And what do they call you?"

"I'm Theon Greyjoy - heir to the Iron Islands."

"Are you, my Lord?" she circled her pelvis again, grinding harder, "I've heard about you."

He grinned, "all good things, I hope?"

"Impressive things," she put her hand between his legs and squeezed - and her knowing smile grew delighted, "and they were all true."

He leaned upward to kiss that pouty, red, knowing mouth. "The Greyjoy's are famed for their skills in love making," he told her.

"Well … why don't we go upstairs - and you can show me those famous skills." He nodded and she took him by the hand, pulling him out of his seat. He left a coin on the table to pay for the meal and then followed her through the taproom and up the stairs.

She took him into a chamber and once the door was closed behind him, she wrapped her arms around him once more and kissed him deeply. "What would you like, my Lord?"

He kissed her in return and pushed her down on the bed, climbing on top of her. "Be quiet," he told her, "and just let me…" he kissed her again and then, between kisses, began to unlace her bodice.

"You're going to show me those skills," she said, breathlessly, her laugh getting caught in her throat. She reached out and began to untie his britches, "and you're going to show me that cock." His britches fell round his ankles and his now freed cock snapped upwards, pointing at his belly. She wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to rub up and down, slowly and - as she worked - she brought her lips right to the head. Her tongue suddenly flicked out like a serpent's and there was a moment of pressure as she licked him - so quickly it was there then it was gone. Her tongue flicked out again and again - each moment a moment of teasing ecstasy and then removed too soon, and all the while her hand moved up and down.

He threw his head back and moaned, as she finally slowed her tongue down - moving it slowly now, sensually, in tight little circles right around his one eye. He began to quiver as the trembling of longing and painful pleasure shot through his whole body, contracted his every muscle. "Are you ready my Lord?" she asked, and then he felt the pressure of her hand tighten before she opened her legs and thrust his length inside of her. He collapsed on top of her, pushing himself deeper inside, feeling her squeeze against him until he could hold back no longer. He moaned again and his eyes rolled up … and then he found himself pushed away from her, spilling his seed across his own belly.

"It's extra if you want to stay the whole night," she told him. Lost in the soft darkness of pleasure, he just nodded vaguely and then fell asleep.

**#**

She woke him next morning just as the sun was beginning to rise - and he got dressed and she led him back down the stairs and to the door. He handed her a coin, "what's your name?" he asked. She looked at the coin, "are you coming back?"

He grinned, "I might, if you tell me your name."

"Ros," she said.

"Ros," he repeated, "I'll remember that."

"And I'll remember you, Theon Greyjoy - heir to the Iron Islands," her voice and her smile were still knowing; mocking but not unfriendly.

She closed the door behind him and he wrapped his cloak tightly around himself to ward off the cold of the morning air and headed back to the castle.

He arrived just as the portcullis was being raised and - once the guards were looking in the opposite direction - took his moment to slip back inside the castle walls. The place was just coming to life, people starting to bustle around getting on with their chores. The imp was outside the kennels with the prick of a prince. They were arguing. Theon couldn't hear what about but, as he walked past, he saw Lord Tyrion raise his hand and slap the golden cunt right across the face. Theon didn't know why - and he didn't care. But it put a smile on his face as he headed into the great hall for breakfast, and gave him a lot more respect for the littlest Lannister.

Inside the hall, however, was a sight that wiped the smirk from his face. Cicely was walking among the tables, a jug in her hand, serving those eating. He glowered at her - but she just ignored him and carried about her business.

He dug his fork into his pigeon pie and took a swig of small beer, as Tyrion the imp came sauntering into the hall - throwing his breakfast order at the serving girls as he walked. "Bread. And two of those little fish. And a mug of dark beer to wash it all down - and bacon, burned black." He walked past Theon, paying no attention to him and went to the high table, where the other Lannisters were sitting. Under the cover of drinking his ale, Theon watched and listened to them covertly.

"Is Bran going to die?" The little golden princess asked. Her impish uncle told her no - and the news seemed to trouble the Queen. "What do you mean?" Cersei asked sharply - and Theon had to wonder why she was so surprised by the news, why it seemed to trouble her. That the Gods would spare Bran was good tidings, to everyone, surely? Whether they knew the little boy or not.

"It's no mercy letting a child linger in pain," the Queen declared. Though Theon had seen Bran, seen him sleeping. The child did not seem to be in pain - wherever his soul was, right now - he was at peace. More peace than the other inhabitants of Winterfell were able to find. As he mused on that, the conversation of the Lannisters changed - they began to discuss the wall and Lord Tyrion's decision to visit it. That didn't interest the young Greyjoy and he tuned out, concentrating on his own breakfast - and thinking of Ros. Cicely walked by him, again - and he purposefully averted his eyes and remembered the way Ros' pretty pink tongue had snaked out from between her lips - and the wicked and wonderful things she would do with it.

Across the hall, the Queen gathered her children and left - leaving her two brothers behind. Their conversation immediately turned back to the matter of Bran Stark - and Theon began to listen again, wondering why they found the matter so interesting.

"Even if the boy lives, he'll be a cripple, a grotesque," Ser Jaime was saying, "give me a good, clean death any day."

"Speaking for the grotesques, I'd have to disagree,' his dwarf brother replied, "death is so final … whereas life - life is full of possibilities. I hope the boy does wake. I'd be very interested to hear what he has to say."

"My dear brother, there are times you make me wonder whose side you're on."

"My dear brother, you wound me. You know how much I love my family."

Theon pushed the bench back with his legs as he stood, he used the back of his hand to wipe away crumbs and the residue of ale from his mouth and then, without glancing at the two Lannister men - hoping they wouldn't realise they had been overheard - he left the hall and went to look for Ser Rodrik, to receive his first instructions for the day. It still seemed strange to him, though, that the Queen and her twin were so very interested in the condition of Bran - and so invested in the idea of him dying. Their strange behaviour would give him something else to think about as he worked, if he found himself getting too worked up remembering the way Ros had touched him, or at the memory of her swollen, pink cunt.

**#**

Today was the day the royal family and their entourage - and Ned - were finally leaving. The whole courtyard was heaving with wagons and carriages being readied, and horses being led out of the stable, saddled and ready to mount. For the departing southerners there was almost a carnival atmosphere, as they made ready to finally return home and put the North, and the deathly hush of the castle, behind them. For the Northerners, there was bustle and excitement - but also sadness. Ned was taking many of his guards with him, including Jory Cassel, and more families than the Stark's were being split up in this move to King's Landing. But - for the first time in a long time - despite Bran's still being unconscious, there was noise and clatter and chatter inside the walls of Winterfell.

Theon finished helping hitch one of the horses to a wagon, he patted the horse and then moved away to the next cart. He bumped into Jon on his way across the yard. "Greyjoy," Eddard Stark's bastard nodded at him.

"Snow," he nodded back.

"I am leaving with my father - but then travelling North to the wall." He held his arm out rather awkwardly, "so this is goodbye."

Theon took his arm and they shook, "goodbye - and good luck."

"Thank you." He gave another stiff nod and then walked away. Theon watched him go. In a few weeks time, Jon Snow would be at the wall and sworn to the brotherhood, taken the black and vowed to never get his end away for all his days. He didn't know how he could bear it - what would be the point of living if you never even got to touch a woman? Once Jon was sworn in, he might as well chop his parts off - all the good they would do him. Theon couldn't imagine having to live like that. But then, he didn't think Snow had ever been with a woman, did not know what he was missing. Perhaps if he had found himself in a room alone with Ros he would have changed his mind, forgotten the black and the brotherhood and watching on the wall.

The sudden thought of Ros sent an immediate warm burst of blood rushing right down between his legs, and he felt himself swell inside of his britches. He shook his head, remembered the mysterious conversation of the Lannisters, to distract himself, and walked quickly to the next horse that needed hitching.

**#**

When everything was packed and all the horse readied and all the goodbye's said, it was time for the royal family, and Lord Stark to leave. The guardsmen climbed onto their horses, fat Robert was helped up onto his - and Joffrey the Cunt mounted his pretty, white pony and then smirked around the courtyard - looking very pleased with himself.

The women who were travelling were helped into their carriages. Theon lifted Arya up and placed her into her coach with the Septa. "You be good," he said to her.

"You be good," she replied. He grinned. "I always am."

"Where's the Little Dove?" They heard the Queen call out, "I would like little Sansa to ride along with me."

Arya rolled her eyes, but Theon bowed to the Queen and promised to find the elder Stark girl. He couldn't see her in the crowds and he pushed his way through, back to the walls of the keep. She wasn't in her chambers, when he arrived there. He wondered if she was with Bran, saying goodbye to her mother. He would try there last - he did not like to enter the gloom of the sickroom, and could feel only too well how Lady Cat thought he was intruding. Instead he tried the hall.

He found her there - standing alone in the middle of the room, looking around. "The Queen is asking for you, Sansa," he said to her. "It's time to go."

"I was just wondering when I would see this place again," she said. "I wanted to say goodbye."

Theon looked around, wondering what it would be like to be looking at the hall knowing you were leaving it behind forever, knowing you were moving on. Whether, when his time came- if it ever came - he would feel gladness and excitement, or the melancholy that seemed to have infected Sansa. She had been so excited to go to King's Landing, had begged her mother to insist that Ned let her marry Joffrey - but now the moment was here, she was lingering, reluctant to leave. Theon wondered if it would be like that for him, when he was finally allowed back to Pyke.

"It might be a long time before you see Winterfell again," he told her, "but we will all see you … at your wedding." He kept his tone deliberately flat, not betraying the pang in his heart at the thought of her marrying that prick, instead of him. He and Sansa could have been married in the Godswood, underneath the weirwood tree - and she would never have had to say goodbye to her home. The image of them, being wed at night in the presence of the Old Gods, Ned speaking the words and handing her across to Theon, come to claim her, flickered in mind's eye - and he deliberately looked away from it. "And when you return, it will be as a married woman. A princess - maybe even a queen."

Sansa's face suddenly lit up at the thought. "Yes - and we will sleep in the best chambers and all the festivities will be held in my honour."

"The Queen is waiting for you," he repeated. She tore her eyes away from the hearth and the direwolf banners, glanced at Theon and then nodded. "Will you come to my wedding?" She asked as he walked her out of the hall.

"Will you invite me to your wedding?" he asked in return, trying to make a joke of it.

"Oh yes - I want you to see me get married. I want everyone to see me."

"Then I'll be there."

"Swear it?"

"By the Old Gods and the New. I'll watch you get married, Sansa." He didn't speak to her again - and she climbed into the carriage, where the Queen was waiting for her, without so much as a backwards glance at him.

**#**

The whole of Winterfell turned out to see Lord Stark off - except for Lady Catelyn. And Bran, of course. The first of the horses rode out, the Kingsguard - leading the way, then Ned and Robert and Joffrey, then the carriages rumbled out behind them, followed by the wagons carrying the luggage and finally Ned's guards rode out - heading up the rear. The crowds being left behind waved and waved until they were all out of sight - until the last of the distant dust clouds had settled back to the earth - and then, with a feeling of great emptiness - of deflation - the smallfolk of the castle went back to work.

Theon looked at Robb, who was still standing in the middle of the courtyard - his eyes on the road, where his father had just disappeared from view. "So you're in charge, now … what will you do first?"

Robb tore his gaze away from the distant path and turned to look at his friend. "I will speak to my mother," he said, "she has been too long at Bran's side. Rickon needs her. Winterfell needs her."

**#**

With the castle suddenly desolate and deserted, and with nothing much to do - after weeks of bustling activity - and without Cicely to chase, and Ros too far away, Theon took his bow and arrow over to the butts and began to get in some archery practice.

He was a fine archer - he always had been. The bow felt natural in his hand, seemed to meld fluidly with his whole body so that it felt like just another part of him. He stood with his legs apart, turned slightly to the side and pulled out an arrow from his quiver. He nocked it against the string, pulled his bow arm back, bent his knees and then let the arrow fly loose to find its target. It hit dead centre and - pleased - he took out another from his quiver. He let loose arrow after arrow until the centre of the target was entirely studded with them - and there was no more room. He went and pulled them free, returned them to his quiver and then went and took up his position again.

He repeated this time and again - until it was almost too dark to see. He was kept running around, doing chores, running errand after errand so much of the time that it came as a wonderful freedom to suddenly have the quiet of the castle, no one looking for him, no one expecting anything of him. He intended to make the most of it- for tomorrow, Robb would be his master - and who knew what future lay ahead for the hostage squire of a master who was little more than a boy? The very thought made him bite his lip - and he loosed another arrow and listened to the satisfying clunk, as it found it's target, to try and push the unwelcome thought away.

The sun was now almost completely below the horizon, the sky was quickly turning from light to dark blue and headed towards black - and the stars were just becoming visible in their inky blanket. He pulled the arrows from the target for the last time, knowing there would be no more light to keep practising, and his thoughts turned to the party out on the road - their first night, wondering where they would stop to make camp.

He remembered his own journey here - all those years ago - the biting cold as they reached the North, the way the fire would bring life back into frozen limbs and make them itch, sleeping on the ground for a whole month … and he couldn't help but wonder how Sansa, and Cersei, would manage. Or would they not pitch camp in the middle of nowhere, as Ned and his men had done on the way home from Pyke? Perhaps, in deference to the ladies, they would ride until they came upon one of the lesser townships in the North, and beg hospitality from the Lord who ran it. But either way, he thought of Sansa and Arya, on their first night away from home - and remembered his own first night after leaving Pyke, on board the ship that took him as a prisoner to the mainland.

He carefully checked the heads of the arrows, to make sure they weren't damaged from his practice and - once he was satisfied that they were still good - returned them to the barrel where he had found them. If he used up the supply he would only have to spend part of the next day ordering fresh ones from the fletcher. Squatting down to stash the arrows away, he suddenly caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, bright and golden and flying through the air, like a star falling to earth. He looked around, frowning, but could see nothing untoward, so he shrugged it off, finished putting his arrows away and then headed back to the keep.

But, as he walked back to his own part of the castle, he became aware of the acrid smell of smoke on the air. He sniffed. Something was smouldering, slow but intense - and the thread of black smoke laced through the air. Then he heard the sound of a woman's cry - and the sound of more cries, and men yelling - he changed direction and headed for the source of the commotion.

He found chaos in the courtyard. The thatched roof of the blacksmith's has somehow set alight, and the flames were beginning to chew on the straw, growing stronger by the moment and threatening to spread to the roofs of the other workshops. The yard was full of people, shoving and jostling - some milling around and watching, some fighting to get away. Chickens were squawking and running around underfoot, trying to get away from the flames, nearby caged ravens were screaming, the horses in the stable were whinnying in terror - and no one was working to extinguish the flames.

Theon pushed his way towards the smithy and then climbed on to a barrel to give himself height over the crowd. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled - long and sharp and clear - and the noise cut through the cacophony in the yard, and all went quiet. "Men," he yelled over the sound of the horses, birds and flames, "I need you to form up - make two chains leading from the smithy to as close to the wells as we can reach. Women, go to the wells- haul the water… NOW" there was a moment of nothing- and then everyone nodded and dashed off to follow their instructions.

The men lined up in two long chains leading from the smithy out through the courtyard - and the women hauled buckets of water and then handed it to the nearest man. The bucket was then passed from hand to hand until it reached the front of the chain - and Theon, at the front of his chain, and the blacksmith at the front of the other would throw the water over the flames - trying to douse them.

It was tiring work, his muscles already ached after the hours of archery practice - but now they screamed, as bucket after bucket was passed to him and he threw its contents over the roof of the smithy. Some of the little orphan boys who lived in the castle would then run the empty pail back to the women by the wells.

The fire scorched his skin, he felt his lips parch and begin to crack, his eyes stung and he felt the falling cinders land on him and burn him like the sudden sting of an insect. His throat was dry and the smoke was making him choke and splutter - but he and the other men worked on, dousing the flames with pail after pail of cold water.

And then Robb was suddenly at his side. "What happened?"

"Don't know - the roof just caught fire."

"Was it the furnace?"

"Don't know … that's never happened before." He threw another bucket of water over the flames - they were starting to make progress now, the fire was dying back. The thatch from the Blacksmith's would be ruined - but they should save the building itself, and the others beside it.

Robb joined the chain and he and Theon worked side by side until the job was done and the flames were finally extinguished, with a great hissing sound. They were covered in soot and drenched in water, their skin was sore and tender and their muscles screamed - but it was over - and the danger was past. They stared up at the burned out hulk of the smithy and the charred roof. The Blacksmith pushed past them and stumbled inside his workshop to take a look at the damage. "Be careful," Robb called out to him, "it might not be safe - the beams might not hold." He turned back to Theon, "what could have started this?"

Theon climbed back up on his barrel, so he could get a better look at the damaged roof. There was something sticking out of it - metal, and triangular. He reached out to pull it free from the beam it was lodged in but it was still hot and it burned the tips of his fingers. He cried out and retracted his hand quickly.

"What is it?" Robb asked, sounding concerned.

"There's something here…' he squinted to get a better look at it, "it looks like … an arrow head." He remembered the golden ball of fire that had flown through the sky.

"How did it get there?"

He jumped back down to the ground. "Someone did this on purpose," he told Robb. "Someone lit an arrow on fire and then loosed it into the thatch on purpose. Why would they do that?"

Robb looked around - at all the crowds of people in the courtyard, it seemed that every person in Winterfell was part of the commotion. "Maybe they wanted everyone out here," he said, slowly, frowning. "Maybe they wanted to cause a distraction…"

"Distract us from what?"

A sudden look of horrified realisation flashed in to Robb's eyes. "Mother! … Bran!" and without saying another word he left the carnage of the fire and raced back to his brother's bedchambers. Theon followed on after him.

**#**

Robb flung Bran's door open and stormed inside, Theon close behind - and what they found in the room made the chaos in the courtyard shrink to nothing in comparison. They stared around, wide eyed and alarmed. Lady Catelyn was slumped in the corner, clutching her hands - which had been shredded to ribbons and were bleeding heavily. But her blood was nothing compared to the pool of blood on the floor. A man was lying in it - dead. They did not know him, but his throat had been ripped out and he had died here, whilst they fought the fire. Summer, Bran's direwolf, was sitting on the bed. Her muzzle was red - with the blood of the man she had killed. Bran still lay unconscious - completely unaware. The only sound in the room was Catelyn's ragged breathing.

"Mother," Robb was by her side in a moment. "You are hurt."

She pulled her hands closer to her chest. "It's nothing. He tried to kill Bran. I wouldn't let him. Wouldn't let go of the dagger."

He crouched down by her side and took her injured hands gently in is own. "You saved his life," he said softly, "my father would be proud. But you must see the Maester at once - these wounds are ugly."

"I won't leave Bran."

Theon drew his sword from his sheath. "I'll stay with Bran, Lady Cat. No one will get past me, I'll stay with him until you return."

"And Summer will stay too," Robb said to Catelyn, nodding his thanks to Theon. "Bran will be in safe hands - but please, let us tend to yours."

She finally agreed, and her eldest son helped her to her feet and ushered her from the room. He glanced back at Theon before he left. "Thank you, Theon. Stay until I return?"

Theon nodded and Robb closed the door - leaving the young man and the bloodstained direwolf alone to guard the sleeping child. He stared there all night, until the grey light of dawn began to seep into the night sky and the larks began to sing - and then Robb came back to relieve him.

**#**

That afternoon, as weary as he was from his exertions putting out the fire and then a night of no sleep, he was busy in the smithy, helping the blacksmith sort through all the wreckage. Robb suddenly appeared in the doorway, "Theon," he jerked his head - to indicate he wanted the other man to follow him and - with an apologetic glance at the blacksmith - Theon followed his new master out. "What is it?" he asked. Robb didn't answer right away and just continued walking, Theon walked beside him. It wasn't until they were beyond the earshot of any of the smallfolk that Robb spoke again. "My mother wishes to speak with us. About last night."

Robb led him out to the Godswood, where they found Lady Stark standing beneath the weirwood tree. Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin were with her, the two young men joined the group - and Catelyn looked around at them all before she spoke to them in a hushed voice. "What I am about to tell you must remain between us. I don't think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was thrown."

"He was always sure footed before," Maester Luwin said, nodding his head gravely. It was true. Bran had always been an excellent climber, had scaled all the walls of Winterfell with never an accident.

"Someone tried to kill him, twice" Catelyn told them, her voice was sure - she knew this was no coincidence. "Why? Why murder an innocent child? Unless he saw something he was not supposed to see."

Theon furrowed his brow, "saw what my lady?" He tried to think back to the day - weeks ago now - that Bran had fallen. It had been the day of the hunt. All the men in the household, and in the King's retinue, had been out in the forest. So what, of any interest, could Bran have possibly seen in that broken down old tower?

"I don't know," Catelyn shook her head, "but I'd stake my life the Lannisters are involved."... And Theon remembered the conversation between the Lannister siblings at breakfast. How Lord Tyrion the imp was eager for the boy to awaken, whilst his golden haired siblings had argued that the boy was better off dead.

"Did you notice the dagger the killer used?" Ser Rodrik asked the small group. It had been a blade of Valyrian steel with a handle of dragon bone. It was far too fine a weapon for the cutthroat who had come to Bran's room. It was the dagger of a Lord. The assassin had been given this blade by the person who hired him.

Robb was looking angry. "They come into our home and try to murder my brother? If it's war they want…"

"You know if it comes to that I'll stand behind you" Theon said eagerly.

"What? Is there to be a battle in the Godswood?" The Maester's tone was a dismissive as his words, verbally slapping down the hotheaded young men and their wish for war. "Too easily words of war become acts of war," he cautioned. "We don't know the truth yet. Lord Stark must be told."

But Lady Catelyn did not trust these words to reach her husband safely by the wings of a raven. This was too important, and those that knew the truth would be watching and waiting for any sign of movement from the Stark's. Robb offered to ride to King's Landing himself, but his mother wished for him to remain and rule over the castle as was his place. Theon would offer to go - but he knew he would never be allowed. He might be trusted enough to guard Bran, to be told about the danger he was in - but he was still a prisoner, a hostage. He could not be allowed to ride through Westeros alone, unguarded and unchained. They did not trust him enough not to run away back to Pyke. He knew - he heard it often enough - 'Never trust a Greyjoy'.

Lady Stark was going to ride to her husband herself, and Ser Rodrik was to accompany her - and it was hoped that they would reach Ned before the Lannisters realised that so small a party was on its way. And in the meantime - the rest of them were to guard Bran.

**#**

Theon took the first watch that night; taking his place in Bran's room, beside Summer, as the night drew in. There was a fire in the hearth and he sat down before it, staring into the flames. His sword was unsheathed and within reach of his hand, but the Lannisters would not yet know their assassin had failed - it was unlikely there would be more trouble, so he allowed himself to sit down and relax a while.

He watched the fire leap and jump and listened to the logs splitting and crackling, and he wondered where the Lannisters were now, and if Sansa was safe with them - or if Catelyn shouldn't fetch her back home once she reached King's Landing. He wondered what Bran had seen in the tower that would cause the Lannisters to want to kill him - and if the imp knew about it, or just the golden twins. He frowned - as he remembered that he had not seen Jaime Lannister the day of the hunt…

Suddenly, Summer let out a great and pained howl. Theon jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword ready for some kind of attack - but nothing happened, and Summer continued to howl and howl as if in agony. He stared at the direwolf - not understanding what was wrong - and then, across the courtyard, he heard the sound of Grey Wind and Shaggy Dog joining in.

The baying of the direwolves chilled him to his marrow, it continued for a long time and nothing would quiet them. All alone with the howling animal, Theon couldn't help but shudder and wonder what it meant, what had happened - and what it signified for the Stark's scattered around Westeros, that their banner animal was in so much pain.


	5. Lord Snow

**Lord Snow**

The sound of the blacksmith's hammer rang out through the courtyard, the smithy was repaired, the roof rethatched and the workshop was opened for business once more. Theon was waiting on some horseshoes. He sat just outside the forge, the collar of his fur cape pulled up around his ears to ward off the cold winds of the north. Little Rickon sat beside him, shuddering with every clanging hammer blow.

Theon smiled down at him; the little boy was at a loose end these days - the castle so empty and quiet - and almost all his family gone, and Robb too busy for him. So Rickon now acted as Theon's shadow, following the older boy around as he completed his work - trying to help in his little boy way - but it seemed he didn't like the striking of the great hammer against the anvil.

"You need to get used to that," Theon told him, though his tone wasn't unkind. "You'll be a great Lord one day - like your father. Like your brother…" he managed to keep the bitter note out of his voice. "You'll ride into war on horseback - a sword in your hand - and the sounds they make as they clash against each other will be just as loud as that hammer. You can't flinch from loud noises, if you're a great lord of the North."

"I'm not flinching," Rickon replied - shuddering once again at another hammer blow. Theon laughed. "And I won't be old enough to go to war for a long time yet."

"I wasn't much older than you at the siege of Pyke."

"Did you see any fighting?"

"I saw men die. I saw the halls of my home run red with their blood. I heard their screams."

Rickon shuddered again. "I don't want to go to war," he said. "I want to stay here with you and Robb and Shaggy Dog. I want father back. And mother. I want everything to be the way it was before the King came to stay."

"Your mother will be home before too long," Theon promised. "You'll see. And then everything will get back to normal."

But Rickon shook his head. "Nothing will be normal - not as long as father and the girls are away. And Jon has left forever and…" he trailed off.

"And what?" Theon asked him, seeing him hesitate.

"And Bran," Rickon said, quietly. "Bran will never be back to normal will he?" He looked up at the young man, searching his expression for the truth. No one ever told six year olds the truth - he knew that much - knew that hushed whispers cut off suddenly when he appeared, so he wouldn't overhear upsetting news. He hoped Theon might tell him what was really happening, even if Robb wouldn't - Theon often said more than he was supposed to, was always getting in trouble for it. "I heard Maester Luwin say that Bran will never walk again," the little boy said.

Theon inhaled sharply and looked away. "_You _shouldn't be listening in to grownups conversations."

"I didn't mean to over hear!" the little boy protested, "I wasn't eavesdropping. But Shaggy Dog got away from me - I was following him and I heard Robb and the Maester speaking. They didn't realise I was there."

"Then you should have made your presence known."

"Is it true, Theon? Tell me. Is Bran really never going to walk again?"

"That's what the Maester says," Theon admitted gruffly, nodding his head. "But I'm no Maester - I know no more about it than you do."

"He wanted to be in the King's Guard, when he was bigger … he can't do that if his legs don't work, can he?"

"No… I don't suppose he can."

"What will he do instead? What can he do?"

Theon sighed. "Do we have to worry about this now?" he asked. "Bran is still a child. He has a long way to go before he needs to worry about finding his place in the world." He looked around the courtyard - at all the smallfolk of Winterfell busy with their work. "Everyone has to find their own place, in the end - and Bran is no different."

"Like you found your place here?" Rickon asked him, "working at Winterfell." Theon shook his head. "My place isn't here. I belong on Pyke, with my people - leading the Iron Fleet and then one day ruling in my father's stead." The hammer blows stopped - the silence was sudden, and deafening in its own way.

"Then why are you here?" Rickon said - his words taking the place of the blacksmith's hammer ringing in Theon's ears. He frowned. "Come on," he said getting up - and heading into the smithy to collect the finished shoes. "Let's get these to the farrier."

**#**

Once the work was done for the day - and Rickon had been handed over to a serving girl and put to bed - Theon found Robb sat by the fire place in the great hall, brooding. Grey Wind lay at his feet. The direwolf's ears pricked up as it heard someone approaching, but lay back down when it saw it was just Theon. The Young Greyjoy couldn't help the slight feeling of relief - seeing that Grey Wind saw him as no threat - it would be a long time before the assassin's ripped out throat and Summer's red muzzle faded from his memory. He was much warier of the animals now than he had used to be.

He sat down opposite Robb and felt the warmth of the flames wash over him. They said winter was coming - the days were getting shorter. It was always cold up here in the North, the snows came even in the long summer, but there was a bite to the air recently - a touch of frost on the grounds in the early morning that whispered that the best of the weather was behind them. It was getting colder - and days spent outdoors left his skin chapped and his bones freezing. Thawing out in front of the fire felt good, got his blood moving quicker again and brought about that familiar itch he still remembered from his first journey to Winterfell, as a boy.

Robb barely glanced up. His fingers were linked together, his brow was furrowed and his eyes were dark, as he watched the flames leap and crackle and spit. "Are you all right?" Theon asked him, after he had watched him stare silently into the fire for a few moments. Robb grunted, but didn't answer.

"Robb -"

"My brother is crippled," Robb said slowly, still not looking away from the flames. "He'll never walk again. Someone tried to kill him - and then sent an assassin to finish the job. My mother suspects the Lannisters. My father has gone to King's Landing - to live among the Lannisters. He has taken my sisters. Sansa will marry that little Lannister prick - and all the while one of them, maybe more, may have tried to kill my brother." He took a deep breath. "And I am left here, to look after my crippled brother and my infant brother - and to run the castle, and the whole of the North. Alone. And you ask if I am all right?"

"You're not alone," Theon said to him, fighting down his annoyance at being overlooked - as well as the familiar pang in his chest that came with any mention of Sansa's marriage to Joffrey.

"It feels that way." If Robb heard the irritation in Theon's voice - noticed it - then he paid it no mind. "I now know what it's like to wake up with fear, in the morning - and got to bed with fear at night."

"If you're afraid of Lannister assassins…"

"I'm not afraid of _Lannister assassins_." He sounded scornful - and he finally looked up, looking at Theon, his lip curled in disdain. "I'm afraid for everyone. For the people here - and in all the other holdfasts in the North. Whether we will have food enough to last the winter. Whether we will freeze in our beds. Whether we'll manage to keep the peace - or if people will die over petty squabbles turned into acts of war. And that's if we manage to find an explanation for what happened to Bran. But if mother delivers her message - and my father finds proof that the Lannisters are behind all this - then we will go to war with the south. Just as winter is coming. How will the women live, with their men at war? How will the men survive a campaign - sleeping out in the open, under the winter skies - in the snow?" He broke off, shaking his head, and returned to staring at the fire. "I know what fear is now. It's having responsibility over people's lives - and no real power to stop what is coming for them - but being responsible anyway… you wouldn't understand."

Theon bristled under his words but bit his lip hard, until he tasted the blood, and forced himself to control his temper. "I may not bear Lord Stark's name - and I may not rule the North in his stead - but I was trained by him, taught to be a great Lord by him - just like you. And one day I will rule over my own people - just like you. I will be Lord Reaper of Pyke - responsible for the lives of all the Ironborn and leader of the Iron Fleet…"

"Your duties and my own are not the same," Robb told him.

"But I can help you!" Theon protested. "I have worked for many years under Ser Rodrik - doing most of the work, even if I didn't have the authority. I can keep this castle running for you - I can be steward of Winterfell, even as you are the Lord - if you just give me the authority to act. I can run the township, Maester Luwin can look to the household and you can be free to listen to petitions and act as justice in the land. Your father had many years experience and he did not try to do it all alone. You should not either. Make me steward of the castle."

"You are my father's hostage," Robb said to him.

"I am your father's _ward,_" Theon corrected him, hotly. "And who else is there? You can't do this alone. Give me the authority and I will shoulder some of the burden for you - do everything I can to make your job easier."

Robb looked over at him, raking his eyes over Theon, looking him up and down as if deciding if he was worthy enough - trustworthy enough - to hold the position he asked for. In spite of himself, Theon felt a hot blush rise through him - his cheeks flaming under the younger man's scrutiny - and he could only hope that Robb would mistake the red stain as being caused by the fire. He, Theon, had worked harder at Winterfell these past few years than Robb and Jon put together - he had had a hand in the running of nearly every aspect of castle life. He spoke with craftsmen, and grooms and servant girls. He took stock and ordered goods, kept the inventory and collected rents. He sorted arguments and ran errands and passed on messages. There wasn't anything he couldn't turn his hand to. He had learned - in his position as squire - exactly what it took to keep a place the size of Winterfell ticking over, and had performed all the duties necessary. And now here was Robb - who had no such experience, no such knowledge - looking him over, deciding if he was good enough to be given temporary stewardship of the castle whilst Ser Rodrik was away.

Bloody Robb. he couldn't do this alone. He even knew that. But he still couldn't help being what he was, even for a moment - the Lord and heir of Winterfell, the eldest son - couldn't help himself from reminding Theon of their respective places. With only a glance - he was able to remind Theon that he held no position in this castle but what Ned - now Robb - gave him; that he was no real member of the family; that he was a traitor and a rebel and his freedom, his very life, was owed to the grace of the Stark's. Robb's authority was handed to him at birth - a gift from the gods. Theon had no authority but that which Robb decided to bestow on him - and Robb was taking his time in deciding if he was worthy of that trust.

Had they not been brothers these past ten years? Had Theon not been loyal _every day_? Had he not worked at every task they ever set him? And completed it well? But that was still not enough. He was never a true Stark - and here in Winterfell, the Greyjoy name meant nothing. Or if it meant something - it meant nothing good. It commanded no respect. _Theon_ commanded no respect.

He stared back at Robb, unblinking, his face a mask, hiding the bitterness he felt as he was forced to remember his position in comparison to Robb's - and awaited the verdict. After a long moment, Robb nodded his head - a curt bow of assent. 'All right,' he said. 'If you think you're up to it, you take Ser Rodrik's place while he is gone - see to the running of the place. I will speak with Maester Luwin, he can be in charge of the things my mother would normally see to. And I will act as Lord - listen to petitions and grant requests. I will speak with the people tomorrow, let them know my decision. Let them know they must obey you as they would obey me.'

Theon nodded. He almost thanked him - but he bit his lip and stopped himself. This was no kindness Robb was doing for him. It was he who was the benefactor here, offering his help and expertise to a new Lord with overwhelming responsibilities. And he was taking on a role beneath his own position. He was a Lord himself - or would be, one day. He would rule Pyke and the other islands the way Robb now ruled the North. To act as a mere steward of the castle was not the sort of position a Highborn Nobleman, such as himself, should aspire to. It was a kindness to Robb - a brotherly favour, that he offered to take on the work. It was Robb that should be thanking him. He wouldn't bow and scrape with gratitude for the scrap he was being thrown, for being deemed trustworthy enough - when he had shown Robb nothing but loyalty for ten years. So he simply nodded. Then he got to his feet and retired to his chamber.

**#**

At first light, Robb called all the men and women of the castle to gather in the courtyard and listen to his new decree. Theon stood beside him - on his right hand side - and Maester Luwin stood to his left; waiting in the frosty, morning air as the small folk arrived and huddled together to listen to the news.

He saw Cicely, in the crowd, standing with Farlen - and purposefully looked away, turning his head so he was facing Robb. He noticed that - in this pale light - Robb was looking nervous, his eyes were darting through the crowd - taking in the size of it - and strain and worry were etched into the lines of his young face. But when the heir of Winterfell spoke, his voice was as strong and clear as always. "I am sorry to call you away from your work this morning," he said to the crowd. "You all work hard for the good of my family, for the good of Winterfell - and we are grateful for all you do - and I know you haven't time to waste standing here, so I shall keep this short."

He took a deep breath. "You all know that my family - that Winterfell - has seen many changes these past weeks. Changes - as well as sadness." His eyes darkened for a moment, betraying a flash of pain as he thought of Bran - crippled - and lying in his bed. "My father - Lord Stark - has gone south to take on the role of Hand of the King, and my lady mother and Ser Rodrik find themselves called away on urgent business. Winterfell is quieter now - and emptier - and we must work all the harder to make up for their loss. I am acting warden of the North now, and I know I can rely on you all to honour me as you honoured my father, I trust that the respect and love you bear my family means you will continue to work your hardest to keep Winterfell protected and productive. But I am new to these responsibilities and must share some of my burden whilst I learn the reins of my new position."

The crowd remained silent, listening with hushed respect to Robb's words. He took another breath. "To that end - I have asked Theon to take on the mantle of steward of Winterfell, to take on Ser Rodrik's role whilst our master at arms is away. And Maester Luwin will be in charge of the running of the household. You know them both. They have both worked for Winterfell for many a year - and know well how to discharge these duties. When they speak to you, they are speaking to you with my authority - and the authority of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, please see to it that you obey them as you would me. Thank you."

He nodded his head, dismissing the crowd - and the assembled people began to melt away, their silence broken by murmuring - as they discussed under their breath the new hierarchy of the castle. Theon had to bite his lip to stop himself from smirking. He was a squire no longer - when he spoke to the stablehands and artisans of the castle, he would be speaking to them as their master. They would have to obey him as their master. The thought pleased him - even if his authority was only borrowed from Robb - he now held more power than he had ever done before in his life. And everyone in the castle knew to obey him.

He caught sight of Cicely, once more, as she departed the crowd with Farlen. He couldn't hide the triumphant smile, when she caught his eye. He had risen in the ranks - and she had watched it happen, and that thought pleased him no end. She would be regretting leaving him now. Being the bedwarmer of the steward would have been no bad place for her - would have given her status. Instead she had chosen to marry the old kennel master, and there were no perks to that position.

Farlen caught him looking at Cicely, and the old man's expression darkened. He jutted his bottom lip out and drew Cicely away from the crowd, pulling her by the elbow, putting distance between her and Theon. As they walked off, the pair began to talk - their voices were low and Theon could not hear what they were saying, but there was no mistaking the dark glances the older man was casting his way. The smirk slid from his face - and he looked away from them - turning back to Robb. "Well, now you've given me the running of the place - I'd better get on with it, make sure everyone keeps hopping."

Standing at Robb's left side, Maester Luwin sighed and gave the young Greyjoy a withering look. "Don't abuse the position you have just been given, boy,' he said, "don't let it go to that swollen head of yours."

Theon bristled. "My job is to ensure that all those beneath me -"

"Your job is to support the new Lord Stark in his position," the Maester cut him off. His voice was calm but there was a biting impatience in his tone, "as is mine. I know you Theon Greyjoy. Know what you are. Do not overreach."

"I will reach as far as my authority allows me," Theon snapped back.

"It is Lord Robb's authority - not yours. You act in his name - do not forget it."

"I thank you both for your support," Robb interrupted the bickering, wanting to put a stop to it. "It is much needed - and I value both your counsels, and will no doubt look to both of you for help in the coming weeks. But now - if you'll excuse me - I need to speak with my brother, now he is awake." He walked away, headed for Bran's chambers, leaving Theon and the Maester staring at each other - mid argument.

With a curt nod of his head, Luwin took his leave of Theon as well, walking back to the castle; his arms folded, his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his robe and his head bowed. Theon watched him walk away and then - once he was alone - turned back to scan the courtyard, seeing all the smallfolk back at work, already; back to their tasks of making Winterfell run. The smirk came back to his face. Today - he was in charge of it all.

**#**

He walked taller, the whole of that day, his chest was puffed out and he swaggered as he walked. Usually his smirk and his swagger were his armour against his own insecurities, masking his pain and his fear from the greenlanders - so they could never see how much it hurt an ironborn man to be trapped so far inland, alone and completely overlooked. But today, the strut in his step came naturally. Today - for the first time in his life - he had real power.

He felt it - in every conversation he had - in every order he gave. He was no longer simply passing on messages, doing Ser Rodrik's bidding. He was in command. He got to decide what needed to be done - and then he gave the order to do it. And one of the smallfolk would hop to it.

It gave him pleasure, managing things; working out what needed to be done and then deciding for himself how it should be done, when it should be done and who by. There was no big long list handed to him, that he had to scurry around and check off items. Today, he made the list - and everyone else did the scurrying. And he was good at it. He had squired for so long, turned his hand to every task related to castle life, that organising it came easily. He could run a tight ship, so to speak - and the very thought of that made him imagine his future, back on Pyke, commanding the Iron Fleet, sailing it across the seas to rape and reave - keeping his men in check, leading them to glory.

If he could run a castle, then he could run a ship - run a whole fleet. All these years, grinding under the heel of Ned Stark and Ser Rodrik, jumping to their commands, had left him with a head for leadership and stewardship. He could take everything he had learned here - all his experience - back to Pyke and become the greatest commander of the fleet that the Iron Islands had ever seen. Take them places they had never been before, sail them into a golden age. And once he took over as Lord Reaper of Pyke, then the whole of his kingdom would prosper under his control - and his own people would respect him, the way the Northmen respected Robb. More so, even, because he would not need to use hostages and old men to help him run his kingdom, when he took over his father's mantle.

The smallfolk knew he was good at this too, he could tell. He could tell they trusted his judgement, the way they nodded in deference and carried out his orders, without question. And they respected him - now he was out from under the boot of Ser Rodrik - they would jump to attention when he came near, even the way they spoke to him was different. They recognised that he was truly above them; not a prisoner, but one of the greatfolk of the castle - in charge of their very lives. Today was a good day. He might be running Robb's castle for him - and still far from home - but today he truly felt like he was reclaiming his proper position in the world, and getting the respect that position demanded. Today he felt like who he was born to be: Prince Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands.

He had not felt this close to his true position since before he was taken prisoner, since before his father was forced to bend the knee to fat Robert and he was wrenched from his mother's arms. For ten, long years his smirk and his swagger were his only defence; a forced mechanism designed to hide his true feelings from his captors and force them to remember that he was a prince - even if he could barely remember it himself. But not today. Today he felt all the true pride of the Greyjoy's - and it showed in the way he walked and in the smile on his face. No more need for defences - today he walked as a Lord.

The day drew on, and he worked busily - giving orders, making lists, speaking with craftsmen - assuring them they would have all they needed, talking to the head of the stables to discuss preparations for the encroaching winter, meeting with the new head of the guard - now Jory Cassel was away at King's Landing - and making plans for the proper defence of the castle now that their guardsmen were depleted in numbers. He spoke with all manner of people, heeding their advice, giving them instructions - and it was the same story everywhere he went: they looked at him with a new respect in their eyes, bowed their heads to him in greeting and again when they parted, and called him 'milord.'

Having finished speaking with the cooper about making more barrels to store sufficient wine and ale once winter had arrived, he crossed the courtyard - thinking to head back to the keep. The sun was now in the west and was beginning its descent, not yet slipped below the horizon but headed in that direction. The shadows were long and the blue of the sky was deepening. He pulled his collar higher up, round his ears and wrapped his cape more tightly around himself - trying to ward off the chill in the air. But for all the cold - he whistled as he walked - feeling very pleased with himself and with the world in general.

The dogs barked, as he walked past the kennels and - just for a moment - he frowned as he thought of losing Cicely to their master, but then he shook off the gloom and began whistling once more. "You fancy yourself a fine lord today, don't you little Theon?" He came to a halt and turned to look. Farlen had appeared in the gateway to the kennels and was glowering at him. It was he who had spoken.

Theon drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at the kennel master. "I _am_ a Lord," he replied, coldy. "Or I will be, when I rule in my rightful place on the Iron Islands. And you would do well to remember your position - and mine."

Farlen spat. "I know your position," he said. "Rebel, traitor, hostage - prisoner. And yet you walk this castle like you own the place."

"I am the steward of this castle - it is under my command."

"You're the _acting_ steward - whilst Ser Rodrik is away - but he'll return, and you'll be back to being his squire, his skivvy, his messenger boy."

"But _today_ I am in command. And you ought to mind your words - else I'll…"

"Else you'll what?" Farlen spat again. "Go running to Lord Robb? You've no authority here, boy, beyond what he lets you hold - and you've no power to act beyond what he gives you. Same as the rest of us."

Theon lost his temper in the face of Farlen's impudence, his lack of respect for Theon's position - he felt his blood rise inside him, staining his cheeks a hot red. The words of the kennel master ushered a nagging doubt into his mind - that all the respect and deference he had enjoyed today was not for him - had never been for him. It was Robb's all along - and the smallfolk still saw Theon as they saw him before. He crushed the thought in his mind before it had chance to take hold - and sought to assert his true position. "I am Theon Greyjoy, last living son of Balon Greyjoy - King of the Iron Islands," he yelled, "we are one of the oldest and greatest families in all of Westeros. You are nothing but some old bastard bitch-wrangler and if you can't keep a respectful tongue in your head then I'll have you thrashed through the courtyard with everyone watching."

"And you think that will make them respect you?" Farlen asked, his gruff voice was sardonic, mocking. "I've seen you strut around here today - like a puffed up little popinjay - thinking you're a big man. You're Ned Stark's prisoner, little Theon, and he uses you as a squire."

"I am his ward," Theon started to say, hotly, again beginning to doubt the sincerity of the deference he had been paid all day.

"You are his _prisoner_," Farlen said, "and if he wasn't such a kind and good man he'd have had you sleeping in the kennels, with the dogs, all these years - where you belong. The fitting place for the whelp of a traitorous cur. Remember this, _Lord Greyjoy_, as you walk round this castle giving your commands: northmen went to fight - and die - in your father's failed rebellion. People here lost brothers and sons and husbands - and they see you for exactly what you are. A traitor and a hostage. You think they respect you? Because you throw your weight around and give orders? It's Lord Robb they respect. They listen to you out of the love and fealty they owe the Starks. You are _nothing_ without Lord Robb behind you."

"Don't you dare speak to me like that!" He gave into his doubts and launched forward, raising his arm and cuffing Farlen around the ear. The kennel master staggered backwards and then regained his footing, glaring at the younger man. "Do you hear me?" Theon yelled at him, striking him again. "I am the steward of this castle and as long as I am in charge then you will speak to me with respect. Else I'll throw you out on your sorry arse. Winter is coming and you'll not last long outside the walls of Winterfell."

"Only Lord Robb has the authority to throw me out," Farlen declared defiantly.

"And if I tell Robb to do it, he will - you hear?" He lashed out once more - and the older man staggered again.

"What is the meaning of this? What is going on?"

Theon whirled around and saw Maester Luwin stood behind him, looking as close to angry as the old man ever seemed to get. "Theon Greyjoy, it is beneath your dignity to strike those who cannot strike back. The Gods have seen fit to put Farlen under the grace of Lord Stark, under his protection, and you have no right to raise your hand to him."

Theon was breathing hard, it was cold enough that his breath was visible in the evening air. "He needs to be taught a lesson," he told the old Maester, angrily. "Taught to keep a civil tongue in his head. He needs to remember how a man such as himself should speak to his betters!" He spat his words out, nearly choking on his rage.

"His betters? Yes - it is a cruel trick of this world that a man's worth is based on the bed he is born in - and not the merit of his soul or the fruits of his labours. You were born to privilege, young Theon, but you have not yet earned the right to call yourself better than any other man - I fear."

His face grew even warmer as yet more blood flooded his cheeks. "I am Theon of house …"

"Yes, yes - we've all heard your pedigree," the Maester said to him. "Now this has been an ugly incident - that does neither of you any favours. But I suggest - out of deference to Lord Stark and the burdens he is currently shouldering - that we put it behind ourselves with no need to take matters further or bring it to his attention. A raven has arrived - from King's Landing, Theon - be so good as to take the message into his Lordship." The old man held out the message and Theon snatched it from his hand and began to stump away.

"Oh - and Theon," the Maester called after him. Theon turned back. "If I _ever_ catch you raising a hand to one of the people of Winterfell again - I _will_ bring your conduct to the attention of Lord Stark, no matter how busy he is, and I will recommend that you are not fit to bear his authority or act in his name."

Theon opened his mouth to fire off a furious retort. But Luwin held up a hand. "That is my final word on the matter - now go deliver the message."

And Theon had no choice but to walk away, his cheeks and ears burning with shame - as he felt Farlen and the Maester's eyes on him all the way back to the keep.

**#**

Robb was beside the fire in the great hall, once again, Grey Wind resting at his feet as he had done the night before. "A raven has arrived," Theon said to him, handing the message over and sitting down, "a message."

Robb took the message from him and began to unfurl it, "what's wrong with you?" he asked, seeing the dour expression on Theon's face. Theon cast his mind over his whole interaction with Farlen - and then shook his head, "doesn't matter - what news?"

"My father has arrived at King's Landing," Robb said, reading the note. "They are settled and well," his face deepened into a scowl, "but there was trouble on the road."

"Thieves?" Theon asked. But Robb shook his head, "Prince Joffrey was attacked…"

Theon snorted with laughter. "Good - the cunt deserves it, remind me to buy a drink for whichever brave soul did that."

"It was Nymeria," Robb told him, "Arya's direwolf. The beast disappeared afterwards… but Queen Cersei had Sansa's direwolf put to death in its place."

Theon glanced down at Grey Wind, resting between Robb's feet, his muzzle nestling between his two front paws, his ears pushed back almost flat against his head. The young man remembered the night when Summer had started to howl - and all the others had joined in, the night Bran had woken up. They must have known - there was more to these beasts than was natural. He remembered the day they had found them as pups, before all this had started. No one knew how a direwolf came to be this side of the wall - none had lived here for a thousand years - but then there were six of them - one for each of the Stark children, and the runt of the litter for Jon Snow. Their mother had been killed by a stag - the banner animal of the Baratheon's - and then it was only days later that the king himself turned up and took Ned away, Bran was almost killed and the first of the direwolves slain. These were dark tidings - foretelling dark times to come for the Stark family, Theon was sure of it, and he felt his stomach lurch at the thought of it.

"How is Sansa?" he asked. She had doted on Lady, and to have her killed for the actions of Arya's own direwolf - that would hurt her. His heart beat against his rib cage as he wondered what she thought of the golden prick she was going to marry, now he had killed her pet.

"The message doesn't say. She will have taken it hard. Sansa is … she takes after my mother. She is gentler than most northfolk, she feels very deeply. Lady was not the only victim of Joffrey. The butcher's boy, Micah, was killed as well."

"This has not been a good start to your father's time as Hand of the King. If I were the type to read and follow omens…"

"It would look bad," Robb agreed. He nodded his head and stared into the fire. "And now my mother follows him down the King's Road - to bring him news of another attempt on Bran's life. To accuse the Lannisters. That puts us all in danger."

"What did Bran have to say?" Theon asked, remembering that Robb had gone to speak with him this morning. "Did he know how he came to fall? Did he remember who pushed him?"

"He says he remembers nothing," Robb replied, heavily, he kept his eyes on the flames.

"And do you believe him?"

"I don't know. Perhaps his fall - his time sleeping - was enough to damage his memory. Perhaps he knows and is too afraid to tell. Or too angry. He is angry, Theon, that much I can tell you. He knows the truth - knows he'll never walk again. He says he wishes he was dead."

"You can't blame him for that."

Robb, looked up sharply and glared at his friend. Theon held his hands up, "I don't mean _I_ think it would have been better if he had died. But what has happened to him is cruel, he has a right to be angry with the world and everyone in it."

"And how am I supposed to help him?"

"Maybe you can't. Maybe no one can."

"You're saying I should just sit by and watch my little brother suffer? He's crippled for life. His mother is away - his father is living amongst our enemies, and I have to hold everything together." He turned back to the fire. "I don't know that I can do this."

Theon watched him, saw the hunch in his shoulders - the strain on his face. Robb was born to be Lord of Winterfell - had made that known in every action taken, every word he ever spoke. He couldn't help it - it was just who he was. But now the time had come, he was finding it all too much. He was not yet ready to rule - and having to do so was costing him dearly. "You can do this, Robb," he said to him. "You don't have a choice - you have to do this, so you will. It will get easier."

Robb grunted in acknowledgement, but he didn't say anything - and he didn't look up from the fire. "Now that you know your father has reached King's Landing, you should send word that Bran is awake…" Robb didn't move. "I can send the ravens for you - to Jon, at the wall, as well - he'd like to know."

There was a moment of silence, except for the hissing and crackling of the fire, and then Robb nodded his head. Theon got back to his feet, clapped his friend on the shoulder and left the hall - making his way to the tower where the ravens were kept.

**#**

It was cold, up in the tower, and the freezing air made his fingers clumsy as he wrote out the messages, telling of Bran's waking up and the prognosis of the Maester. To the message bound for King's Landing, he added that the little boy had no memory of what had caused him to fall. But he said no more than that. Should the raven be intercepted, then committing even the slightest suspicion that Bran had been pushed would endanger them all.

Once the notes were written, he reached into a cage and tried to bring out a raven. He got his finger pecked for his trouble - already half frozen - they were now bleeding from the savage beaks of the birds. "Little bastards," he muttered, grabbing one round the neck and dragging it out. He tied the note for Ned to its foot, and took it to the window. There was no glass in these windows - which was why it was so cold in the tower room - and he threw the bird out into the air, with an instruction to fly to King's Landing. The bird flapped away, and he went to retrieve another raven to send to Jon.

Once both birds were in the air, he stood by the window and watched them fly away in their opposite directions; one headed south to King's Landing, the other headed north - to the wall. He tucked his hands beneath his cloak and stamped his feet in an attempt to ward off the cold. He wished he could just fly away, like a raven, spread his wings and leave this frozen pile of shit behind him; leave behind all the cares, the dangers, the insults - regain his freedom and fly away home.

But there was no chance of that, he didn't know when his day would come - when it was decided that he no longer had to be the prisoner of the greenlanders - that the Iron Islands were deemed no longer a threat of rebellion. Once he had hoped that once he had reached manhood he would be allowed back home, but that time had been and passed. He was a man now, had been for years, and still there was not even the barest whisper of a rumour of his release. And - as a man of honour - and a man who liked having his neck attached to his shoulders - he couldn't run away. Besides, he couldn't leave Robb, now, even if he wanted to. Robb needed him. His escape would be just one more burden to place on his friend's shoulders - a selfish act. A betrayal. He couldn't betray Robb.

But he could get away for the evening, at least. The sky was growing ever darker, lanterns were lit down in the courtyard - but the gates of Winterfell were not yet shut for the night. And there would be no need for him to sneak out this time. He was the Steward of the castle, he had Robb's authority. He could leave as he chose and no one could question him. Perhaps it was time to get away from this place of gloom and sorrow, just for the evening. Perhaps it was time to pay Ros another visit.

**#**

It was just beginning to snow lightly, as he left the castle, and the frozen grass crunched underfoot as he made his way through the forest and towards the brothel in the town outside Winterfell. He pulled his cloak around him as tight as it would go, but it still did not protect him from the chill air cutting through to his bones, and it was with great relief that he pushed the door to the brothel open and felt the warmth of the fire wash over him.

He bought himself a tankard of ale, and scanned the room - looking for her, a flash of her red hair, the sound of her mocking laughter. But she was nowhere to be seen. A different woman approached him, this one was blonde - young and pretty - but not Ros. "And what brings you here, on a cold night like this, young master?" she asked him, smiling up at him and batting her eyelashes, "and is there any way I can help warm you up?"

He took a step away from her, "I was looking for Ros," he told her.

"Ros is already with a fine gentleman, upstairs - but perhaps I can scratch your itch for you?"

Theon took out two gold coins and held them up, "one for you and one for the man she is with, if you go upstairs and and take Ros' place - send her back down to me."

The prostitute eyed the generous offering, "and what is in it for Ros?" she asked, her smile was still flirtatious.

Theon smiled back at her. "Tell her Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, wishes to see her." His voice sounded smug, even to his own ears, as he gave his title.

The woman grabbed the two coins and headed for the stairs. "Remember, one of them is for the man - to compensate him for the loss of Ros," he called after her, but he didn't really care if she kept both for herself - as long as Ros came to him before too long.

He took his ale and went to sit at a table by the fire, he sat there - drinking - and watching the prostitutes and their customers drink together and grow bawdy. The warmth of the flames made his blood flow quicker. He felt his frozen extremities begin to thaw out, and the familiar itch that came with that. He pictured Ros in his mind, her hair tumbling down her creamy shoulders, her pouting lips, her tight, pink cunt - and he felt his blood quicken and flow south, felt himself begin to swell inside his britches. He raised the tankard and took a long draught.

When he put the ale back down, she was standing there in front of him. Her dress was not laced properly, it was falling from her shoulders - and he smiled at the haste she must have made to get back downstairs to see him. Her mouth was just as red and knowing and swollen as he remembered. He wanted to bite her lower lip.

She raised an eyebrow, "well well, if it isn't little Theon - heir of the Greyjoys - Lord of the Iron Islands."

He grinned at her, "I've been waiting for you - I knew you couldn't resist a man with a title."

She sat down in his lap and grabbed between his legs, laughing with delight as she felt his excitement. "Or maybe it was your mighty cock I couldn't resist," she said to him, leaning in to kiss him. He grasped the back of her head, pulling her closer and pressing against her lips with his own - hard. Then he gave into temptation and bit her. She pulled away, gasping for breath, "we can take this upstairs," she told him. He nodded and she slid from his lap and pulled him to his feet, leading him to a private chamber, by the hand.

Once they were alone and the door was closed he threw off his cloak and stripped off his tunic and britches, tearing away his smallclothes. "You're in a hurry," Ros commented.

"I've not been able to stop thinking about you," he told her. "No - stop," he held out a hand to stop her from stripping off her dress as quickly as he had divested himself of his own clothes. He pulled her in for another kiss. "I've been thinking about you for days - go slowly."

"You want to be teased, My Lord," she smirked at him, pulling away from him and sliding one of her sleeves from her shoulder - revealing her smooth, bare flesh. Then she pulled it up again, covering herself once more. "You want me to show myself to you, just a little…" she began to fumble with the laces of her stays, 'step…' and she unlaced them lower, "...at a time." She stopped just before she finished, just before her breasts came tumbling out in the open.

"If you like," Theon said to her. "I want this to last."

She smiled, prurient and knowing, "oh, I can make this last for hours," she told him. She slid her dress from her shoulder once more, then pulled her red hair round, draping it across her bare skin, and pouted up at him. "I can keep this going until your cock is so hard you're moaning in agony and you end up exploding with pleasure without once being touched." She pulled her dress down, so that her breast fell out - but then twisted, hiding it from Theon's view. She glanced back at him over her naked shoulder and smiled again.

He made a noise, deep in his throat - animal and filled with longing. "Enough," he grabbed her and twisted back towards him - and then lowered his face to her exposed breast: kissing and biting and sucking. He heard her moan then, and he kissed up to her throat and then back to her lips. They knelt on the bed, arms entwined, kissing, and he helped her off with the last of her dress, pulling it from her shoulder and tugging it down past her waist until she was as naked as he was. She reached out and took hold of his length.

He shook his head. "Like before," he told her, between kisses, "do what you did before." She nodded - and lowered her head, taking him in her mouth; sucking and licking. He threw his head back and moaned, his eyes rolled up in his head - and he closed them, concentrating on nothing but the sensation of her tongue, circling his end - and then the pressure of her mouth as she brought it higher up his shaft. His knees began to tremble and he made the noise in the back of his throat again.

She sucked harder - and he moaned again - and then, just as he thought his legs would buckle beneath him, and he would collapse, he opened his eyes and grabbed hold of the woman. He pulled her up and flipped her over, holding her down against the bed, and then drove his cock deep inside of her, thrusting and grunting.

They both moaned with the pleasure, and he thrusted harder, feeling her tightness and her warmth. Her cunt suddenly constricted around him, as she flexed her internal muscles and he felt as if he were being squeezed, being drawn even deeper inside of her. She gripped him tighter with every thrust - and he could feel the moment building inside of him, the pressure coming to a head, reaching boiling point - and then spilling over, agony and ecstasy and sweet relief all combined. They both cried out - and then he was done. Spent. He rolled off her and lay on his back, his head against the pillows.

"Are you staying the night, Theon Greyjoy?" he heard her ask from somewhere high above him. He struggled to focus, his thoughts were incoherent - swirling above him and unable to make sense - as the aftershock of pleasure still crashed through his body. He managed to nod his head. Yes he would stay the night. It would be pitch black outside now - and he could easily lose his way in the forest. And few would survive a night outside in these temperatures. Besides - he didn't know when next he would find the time to come down here, to visit Ros. He wanted another go with her before he returned to the castle, and its oppressive atmosphere of quiet and gloom. Once he had recovered - he told himself - they would go again.

He felt her lie down beside him. "Do you like being a whore?" he asked her. He heard her laugh, in the dark. "It's what I am. Do you like being a prisoner of the Starks?"

Even in the blissful fug of his pleasure, he bristled slightly at her words. "I'm not their prisoner - I'm Lord Stark's ward."

"You're a bit old to be a ward, now," she told him. "A ward is a child," she reached out and grabbed his cock - and even spent as he was, it twitched in her hand, responding to the pressure. She laughed again. "And you are most definitely a man. We are what we are. We each have our place in the world. There's not much point in trying to fight it."

"My place isn't here," he said. "My place is with my people - on the Iron Islands."

"Really?" she gripped him harder and began to move her hand up and down. "Is it really so bad here?"

**#**

They had made love twice more before they slept - and then once again in the morning. He paid her for each time, and extra for staying the night. Just like last time, she led him downstairs, as the sun began to rise, and let him out through the back door. He kissed her before he left. "I'll come back soon," he told her.

"I'll be waiting for you, Theon Greyjoy," she smiled her seductive smile - her red lips like twin petals, slightly parted and reminding him of her cunt. Again, he felt himself harden inside his britches - Seven Hells - even her smile made him stiff, when he had already fucked so long and so hard he could barely walk straight. He tore himself away - and staggered up the path towards the forest, headed back for the castle.

He arrived just as the gates were opening - and walked inside, ignoring the knowing glances of the men on guard duty, and went up to his own chambers. He stripped off, once inside, and used the pisspot before taking a cloth and warm water and cleaning off the sweat, dirt and stickiness which clung to his skin after his hard day's work and his long night's fucking. The fire was lit in the grate - and the water he used to clean himself was fresh and had been warmed. That meant a servant had been in here, had got his room ready for his rising - and would have noticed that he was not there, that his bed had not been slept in.

He wondered if that news would make it back to Cicely, as he sponged himself down, wondered if the castle gossip would reach her - that Theon was not sleeping within Winterfell - that he was spending his nights elsewhere. He wondered how it would make her feel, to realise that - as she spent her nights lying in the arms of the old kennel master - he was spending his nights lying in the arms of Ros. He was definitely the one getting the better deal. And it pleased him no end to think that she knew he had moved on.

He pulled out a fresh, linen shirt and pulled it over his head, before stepping back into his britches and putting his tunic back on. Then he buckled his sword round his waist, put on his boots and pinned his cloak in place with his fine, gold brooch. The night had been good, he still flushed and warmed to think of lying in Ros' sweet embrace, but now the night was over - and it was time to get on with another day. Another day running the holdfast. Another day supporting Robb. Another day, waiting to see if Bran remembered anything, or if Lady Cat had reached King's Landing, if Ned could find evidence to support their suspicions - and if the Lannisters would move against them.

There was nothing to do but wait. And whilst they waited there was work to be done. Winter was coming.


End file.
